


Showbiz

by mjartrod



Category: Muse, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Drama, F/M, M/M, Sexual Content, Slash, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjartrod/pseuds/mjartrod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Muse frontman Matthew Bellamy has a stalker. After receiving several threatening messages, the singer for the successful British rock band decides to contact a certain consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my ever faithful beta deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOL

 

 

 

 

_London, February 2011_

  
“This can’t go on, Matt.”  
  
Matthew Bellamy didn’t reply to the soft-voiced concern of his drummer, Dominic Howard, who leaned against the wall next to the window of the bedroom with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.  
  
The Muse front man, singer, guitarist and pianist had been seated on the end of the bed for what felt like a century, staring unblinkingly at the neat handwritten note he held in his hands. He had received all kinds of long-winded letters from fans expressing their admiration and love for him, multiple bizarre gifts, been insulted in every language, taken his fair share of punches back in the day. This... this seemed different, as much as he didn't want to admit it.  
  
Life had been kind to him in the past year. Too kind. His memory was usually unreliable but he truly couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever felt so relaxed and carefree. The band couldn’t be doing better - they had just won a Grammy the week before, for Christ’s sake. He had a lovely supportive girlfriend, a real partner; in a few months he was going to be a father for the first time.  
  
But if there was one thing that had been ruthlessly drilled into him in the past, it was that life always found a way to balance things out.

***

  
  
Dr. John Watson arrived at 221b Baker Street soaked in sweat. Jogging was good, it was healthy. It had absolutely nothing to do, as his flatmate had implied, with the opposite sex (though he didn’t object to any incidental benefits it might bring in that particular area); he simply missed staying in shape after returning from Afghanistan and the rigours of life in military service.  
  
Said flatmate, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, was sitting in the living room in the same exact same position he’d been in when John left the flat two hours prior. Holding his violin, slashing the air with the bow occasionally. John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock hadn’t moved at all nor played a single note. He was well used to his eccentricities by now.  
  
“Hey, I’m back.”  
  
Picking up the newspaper left by the door, he plopped down in his armchair, flipping through the pages to take a look at the headlines. Corporate corruption, economic disaster in Europe, overpaid footballers... a body found in the Thames, just north of Richmond Bridge, too. Apparently no more than an unfortunate drunken drowning, but best not let Sherlock see that one, in case he took an interest. John wouldn't normally have a problem with such a thing but for now there were other cases that should be given priority.  
  
“Any news on the case?”  
  
“Case?” Sherlock looked towards the ceiling, slashing the bow once again.  
  
“The one you were working on? The robbery?”  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said disinterestedly. “Solved it last night. Was the chef. Obviously.”  
  
“Well.” John scratched his head. “That’s good then. So, uh... anything new?” Sherlock didn’t reply and John cleared his throat, aiming for casual. “What about that request that came through your website, the one from the rock band? When are you having a look?”  
  
“The stalker one? Please, John. Self-absorbed celebrities frightened by dull people with tiresome obsessions, who are, statistically, mostly harmless. No, thank you.” He sighed in the most dramatic fashion. John thought that, ironically, there was no one he knew that could play a diva quite like Sherlock.  
  
“Aren't you curious about it? Thought you’d agreed to talk to them.”  
  
“I said no such thing.”  
  
“Oh, come on, why not?” John tossed the newspaper aside.  
  
“Boring.”  
  
“But it's Muse!” John whined dejectedly. Sherlock hadn't had the faintest idea who they were before he got the e-mail and also didn't remotely care how famous they were the world over, but John liked their music and had been hit with a bout of sympathy at the thought of any of the band members being harassed. “And how can you find it boring if they didn't even elaborate on the type of threat? They just want to know if it’s something to be concerned over.”  
  
“Celebrities, John, have fans.  _Of course_  it’s a stalker.” The violin was carefully placed on a chair. “I am not accepting a case just because you want an autograph.”  
  
“What?! That is so not tru-” John stopped mid-sentence and stood, red faced.  
  
“Is that why you're being purposely stubborn? Because I said I liked them? You're unbelievable!”  
  
Sherlock gave him a genuinely puzzled look. “You find it surprising that I do not want to work on cases that elicit big emotional reactions from you? You're far more useful when you're not distracted by emotions.” He said the last word with mockingly widened eyes and a faint moue of distaste.  
  
John gaped for a second before deciding to simply carry on and focus on what he wanted. “Sherlock, it's just a band.”  
  
It was pointless, Sherlock's face stoically unmoved as he delicately rosined the violin bow. It was unlikely he'd change his mind. Unless John took measures.  
  
“You know what, I'm going to have a shower. After that, I'm going to get my laptop,” John looked around, sure that Sherlock had nicked it since the last time its rightful owner had used it, leaving it somewhere obscure, “and write up that last case on my blog. The one that Lestrade nearly solved himself before you could because you didn't know that -”  
  
“You wouldn’t dare.” Lowering the bow immediately Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his flatmate, as if he'd struck one below the belt.  
  
“I will.”  
  
There was a fleeting expression of what John presumed was panic across Sherlock's face at this act of shameless blackmail, though he couldn't be sure, as he didn't think he had ever seen Sherlock panic. But the prospect of everyone at Scotland Yard knowing that Detective Inspector Lestrade, who Sherlock had been assisting the week before, almost solved the case before he did because Sherlock didn't possess an embarrassingly basic piece of political knowledge ('unimportant trivia that cluttered the brain', he had deemed it) was not at all pleasant for the detective. John could almost picture Anderson laughing derisively in his face and, for once, it was something he was almost looking forward to.  
  
“And by the way, you can make your own damn tea from now on, as well!”  
  
Maybe this would make Sherlock understand how serious he was. He had only just stepped out the living room door when the weary response came.  
  
“Oh, all right. All right!”  
  
John couldn't help but grin to himself.  
  
  
A meeting was set for late afternoon at the Connaught, the luxury hotel in Mayfair where the band were staying. Or at least two-thirds of the band, since bassist Chris Wolstenholme was back home. Muse had been on a break since December after the end of extensive touring for their most recent album, having only reunited in London a few days prior, Chris from Ireland and both Matt and Dom from Los Angeles, to attend the annual  _NME_ Awards.  
  
Matt and Dom had no idea what the detectives looked like but they recognised them as soon as the pair entered the bar, mostly because of the distinctive appearance of one of them: tall and lean, dark hair falling over his forehead in loose curls which contrasted sharply with his pale skin; he wore a long, elegant winter coat with a scarf wrapped around his neck, and the two musicians sitting in the corner booth had the striking impression that the man's icy eyes x-rayed the other patrons as he walked by. They hadn’t imagined a man who didn’t seem much older than they were themselves, but there was no doubt - he had to be Sherlock Holmes.  
  
“John Watson.” His shorter, sandy-haired companion introduced himself with an affable smile, extending a hand towards them. “Pleasure to meet you.”  
  
The foursome sat together after introductions were made, a waitress coming by to take their order. Dom ordered a beer, Matt shaking his head absently as he played with his empty teacup, John and Sherlock declining as well.  
  
“You can start by telling me about these letters,” Sherlock told Matt directly.  
  
Stalling for a moment, the singer glanced briefly towards Dom. When they'd contacted the detective, they had made no reference to who had been threatened or in what way.  
  
“It is obvious that this is about you and that it was letters that you received,” Sherlock elaborated in a condescending manner. “Please, do go on.”  
  
“Eh, right.” Matt cleared his throat, taken aback by the abruptness of the bright-eyed man in front of him as much as by the correct assumptions he'd already made. Though it probably wouldn't be that hard to guess for a detective experienced as he claimed to be. “Started about, er, three months ago, right, Dom?” He turned to his friend again, the blond drummer nodding in agreement before flashing a charming smile at the returned waitress, who smiled back with a gentle flush to her cheeks. “And yeah, it's letters. Not real letters, because they don't say much, so notes - it's just a sentence in each.”  
  
The envelopes had been left for him at hotel receptions in London and delivered to their tour manager, who passed them on to Matt, the messages they contained handwritten and becoming progressively more threatening. They stayed at the same hotel more often than not but had intentionally chosen a different one this time as a precaution. But right on the first night of their stay yet another letter had made its way into Matt's hands. Fearful that someone on Muse's staff was handing out inside information, deliberately or otherwise, they wanted the matter to be handled as discreetly as possible. The only people who even knew about the letters were fellow band mate Chris, Tom Kirk, childhood friend and the band's media manager, and their tour manager, Dominic Anderson, who was currently in New York.  
  
They had no idea who this person could be, what their motivation was and how resourceful or dangerous they were. But whoever they were, they seemed upset with Matt’s success, a success that they believed wasn’t backed up by his talent, a success and recognition that he didn’t deserve.  
  
“So what do you think, is this something to worry about?” Matt finished. He had expected interruptions, questions, requests for clarification; but, despite his struggle at points to find the right words, Holmes had just sat there with his hands in his lap, staring at him as he talked, without even bothering to take notes.  
  
“Well.” The detective stood, fixing his dark blue scarf around his neck. “I'll consider your situation. Drop me an e-mail with your number and I will let you know whether I'm willing to assist you.”  
  
“Is that it? You don't need to know anything else and you don't have any questions?” Matt asked sceptically. “You didn't even tell us how much you charge.”  
  
“Money is not an issue for me and we both know it's not for you, either.”  
  
Matt lifted his chin defiantly. “You’ve got our e-mail, you don’t need my phone number.”  
  
“I prefer to text,” Sherlock declared. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”  
  
“We'll be in contact soon. It was nice to meet you.” John rushed to shake their hands with a warm smile, a remarkable contrast in every way with his colleague, before speeding his step to catch up with Sherlock.  
  
“What the fuck was that about?” Matt was furious as he twisted on the leather bench to face Dom, the normally cheerful blond sitting cross-legged in the booth next to his bandmate wearing a thoughtful expression. “Told you this was a fucking terrible idea! See how he didn't ask to see the letters or what was written word for word? I wouldn’t show them to him before knowing if he's to be trusted, but he should’ve asked. Christ, who recommended him to you?” Leaning against the back of the seat, Matt rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “For fuck's sake. And everyone thinks I'm the weird one.”  
  
Dom shrugged. He'd been warned that Sherlock Holmes was a difficult man to deal with, but he had to admit he'd expected the meeting to be more productive. Not that he could share that thought with Matt, as it had been hard enough to convince him to agree to this in the first place. “Want me to give him your number, or will you do it?”  
  
“Fuck that. We're not going any further with this, no chance.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We could’ve exchanged numbers in person and he couldn’t be arsed. Obnoxious twat, completely taking the piss. He's obviously not interested in investigating this.”  
  
“Oh, he’s interested all right...” Dom muttered. He’d spotted the detective taking an interest in something that he was sure would be motivation enough for him to take the case. “Shit out of luck he is, though.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Nothing.” He turned to Matt. His band mate was fuming; Holmes had managed to provoke Matt's slumbering temper with only one short meeting. “Listen Matt, you’re not gonna change your mind now. We’ve gone through this a million times, we need to do something about this psycho.”  
  
“No,” the singer glared at him, hissing under his breath before Dom could interrupt him. “This is ridiculous, it’s no big deal. It’s just a stupid prank and I shouldn't be giving it all this attention.” Then he stood and pointed a warning finger at Dom before leaving the table. “And don’t you dare try contacting him behind my back.”  
  
Dom could only watch as Matt stalked away, rolling his eyes and sighing in frustration. To say the meeting hadn’t met expectations was an understatement.

_***_

  
“So, where are we going now?” John demanded as he trailed Sherlock across the luxurious hotel lobby, leaving their clients behind.  
  
“To get the letters from Bellamy’s suite. As soon as they leave for dinner, of course.”  
  
“What?” John frowned. “You could have asked Matthew to see them just now.”  
  
“Waste of time. He obviously didn’t bring them with him, although it would be the natural thing to do, and he'd have found an excuse not to show them to me if I had requested it, anyway. Extremely unlikely that I would get a chance to see them another way, at any rate, as he has no intention of pursuing this matter. Possibly because he doesn’t want anyone prying. Most likely because he’s an idiot.”  
  
John refrained from suggesting that Sherlock's manner might have put him off, more interested in hearing his observations. “You think they’re hiding something?”  
  
“Not necessarily. Although they  _are_ sleeping together.”  
  
John stopped for a moment, eyes bulging, before he caught up with Sherlock again as they went out the hotel's revolving doors and onto Carlos Place. “Wait, who? The two of them? Are you insane?” He laughed. “Dominic was making a pass at the waitress! And Matthew's girlfriend is pregnant. She's some famous Hollywood actress, I saw her on 'The Graham Norton Show' the other night promoting her latest film. I suppose that's part of why he said he doesn't want her around if there really is a stalker. He probably doesn't want her to worry or put her at risk.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. “Yes, how convenient, considering that he doesn't even believe he's in any danger himself.”  
  
“You keep saying that. So why did they contact you?”  
  
“They didn't - Howard did. He is the one who is worried, Bellamy only agreed to shut him up. He seems to be fidgety by nature, but Howard was the one who was unbearably tense when we arrived. You can tell by the way he sits that he's normally relaxed, but today he was stiff. Tired, too. Late nights, and not just because he's been out drinking. Something’s troubling him. This. He doesn't trust anyone they know with this issue, it's too important to him, which is why he sought the intervention of a professional.”  
  
“They're friends, it makes sense he’s worried.”  
  
“It's more than that. They're joined at the hip and probably always have been. Even when their band is on a break,” he continued as they walked side by side. “Their mannerisms, the way they sit mirroring each other, how they communicate through glances, finish each other's sentences,” Sherlock waved his hands as he spoke, as he always did when he felt he was stating the blind obvious. “Bellamy relies on Howard so much that he doesn't even wear a watch. On tour he always has someone to take care of his schedule and tell him the time, no matter where he is in the world. But even while on a break he doesn't wear one.”  
  
“Maybe it was just today.”  
  
“You would be able to see a tan line on his wrist if that were the case.” Sherlock shook his head. “Howard also relies on management for their schedule, but, unlike Bellamy, you can tell his watch never leaves his wrist. It's an older style and not something particularly fashionable for someone who follows trends like he does, so it clearly has a personal attachment. But it's adjusted to our time zone, even though he's been in Los Angeles, so it means he uses it.”  
  
“Right. And they're sleeping together because...?” The idea was still incredibly far fetched to John.  
  
“You said it yourself, you noticed it.” Sherlock looked expectantly at him, but he only shrugged. “He flirted with the waitress!”  
  
“Ah. Ah!” John exclaimed sarcastically. “Dominic flirts with the waitress so of course he's having sex with the male front man of his band. I'd believe it more if you told me it's because he sat like a woman. Which he did.”  
  
“That is of no relevance,” Sherlock waved him off. “He’s a very sexual person and flirts automatically but he wasn't paying any real attention to her, he was observing me. And Bellamy and him have been together in a rock band for years; with that lifestyle, it's practically impossible that they're so close and yet have never been involved sexually. If being sexual together were a problem, they wouldn't be so close today, there would be some level of friction. There isn't, on the contrary, so if it wasn't a problem once, then it's not at all, so that means they do it regularly.“ He paused. “And I was able to get confirmation of this right before we left.” John raised a sceptical eyebrow at that. “His extreme possessiveness when I blatantly gave Bellamy's bottom an appraising stare.”  
  
“You what?!”  
  
“It was when you were saying goodbye, nobody noticed but Howard, who hadn't taken his eyes off me from the moment we arrived. By now he’ll be thinking that I will take the case purely to try and seduce his band mate,” Sherlock scoffed. “But he's actually not completely useless. Bellamy clearly wouldn't be where he is without him. Fills the dreadful rock star cliché perfectly, that one. I'll be thankful to be done with this business and not need to deal with him any more. My brain aches from just sitting near the man and hearing his convoluted speech,” he griped, stopping to look across Grosvenor Square. “Let this be clear, John - I’m only doing this because of  _you_ . And by the way,” he consulted his watch, “you should perhaps call your - no doubt scintillating - date for this evening and cancel your dinner plans, as we will be going to Bellamy's hotel room in about an hour and a half.”  
  
“What? I'm not cancelling anything!” And how did he even  _know_ ?  
  
“Then she will be, as there's no way you'll make it across town in time. You can eat at that restaurant,” he pointed across the street to a very elegant, expensive-looking place. “The food is very good. Owner owes me a favour, too.”  
  
John sighed, defeated, and followed Sherlock without further complaint. He grudgingly supposed he should try and see the positive side to the situation: no date meant no Sherlock crashing said date, which was definitely less embarrassing.

***

  
  
“You coming or what?”  
  
Matt ignored Dom's question and returned to his spot on the couch, leaving the door of his suite open so the drummer could let himself in.  
  
“Come on, Matt, Andy's already there.”  
  
“Not in the mood to go out.”  
  
Dom licked his lips and put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. He'd arranged to meet his good mate Andy Burrows in Soho, so trust Matt to be a stubborn idiot.  
  
“Stop being a wanker!” He shot out in frustration, but then his voice softened. “I'm serious, Matt. I don't want to leave you alone.”  
  
“Because I'm afraid of the dark?”  
  
“Because you're a paranoid little shit!”  
  
Matt took a deep breath. “I'm not hungry and I want to work on some samples, I’ve got some new stuff right here.” He patted his laptop, Dom giving him a disbelieving look. “Oh, fuck off! Stop acting like you’re my bloody nanny, you're starting to piss me off! Go away, you annoying git!”  
  
“Fine!” Dom threw his hands in the air. “But I'll come see you when I get back. Give me the spare keycard, where is it?” Matt ignored him completely once again and Dom spun on the spot, searching for it. He grabbed it off the coffee table and pocketed it. “Call me if you need anything.”  
  
“Piss off.”  
  
“You're welcome, you tosser.” Dom rolled his eyes and banged the door shut behind him.  
  
Matt exhaled deeply as he was left alone and closed his eyes. Sometimes he positively loathed how Dom could read him like an open book. He shouldn't have agreed to see that detective, it'd unsettled Matt more than he would ever admit, even to himself; it unnerved him to even consider how this Holmes bloke may find that there was, indeed, reason for concern. Dom had been pestering him about the matter, very apprehensive, and the singer was so tired and confused after the last letter that he'd given in to Dom’s demands that they speak to a private detective. Or 'consulting detective', as this one pompously claimed he was on his website.  
  
It was true that there was something very wrong with the letters, and Matt knew well that the border between passionate fan and deranged stalker could be easily crossed. But in the singer’s mind, as long as he wasn’t admitting to the existence of a problem, then there wasn’t one. Just another creep with too much time on their hands that would soon get bored and move on.  
  
Stretching out on the couch with his Mac balanced on his thighs after switching off the lights, Matt took another deep, calming breath. His eyes fluttered open upon hearing a small noise than he couldn't identify, but after a few long seconds he realised it was only the TV in the bedroom, still on with the sound low. Then there was distant laughter from the street followed by the screech of a car’s tyres. Cocking an ear, he looked away from the laptop screen, trying to identify all the different things he could hear, listening out for other sounds. He was now regretting choosing this room; it was soundproofed and being almost surrounded by silence wasn’t as relaxing as he’d anticipated. On the contrary, not knowing what he wasn't hearing was making him anxious.  
  
When he attempted to refocus on the Mac, a decorative candlestick on the ebony coffee table held his attention instead. Instinctively, Matt reached for it.  
  
It was placed in handy reach beside his thigh.

***

  
“Sherlock, what if he's in there?”  
  
“It's Friday night.”  
  
Sherlock and John were walking down the chic hallway towards what the detective claimed was Matt’s suite. Cringing as Sherlock picked the lock like a practised burglar, John glanced furtively in both directions, hoping no one would spot them. The camera near the lift would have, but he was hoping no one would find it necessary to check the surveillance footage. In John’s humble opinion, if they were going to break into Matt’s hotel room, they could have at least made absolutely sure that both band members had left the building, but Sherlock had deemed it unimportant...  
  
It took the detective no more than a few seconds to get the job done and he pushed the door open, stepping into the darkness and letting his eyes adjust to the difference in light. Furrowing his brow, he took a whiff of the air... and understood what he should have known from the moment he unlocked the door.  _Stupid_ . There was someone in the room, of course. But it was too late now.  
  
A heavy object came down to crash into the side of his head and he slumped to the floor, no sound leaving his mouth, hearing John shout his name before he blacked out.  
  
  
Matt’s heart beat wildly in his chest as he realised who was trying to break in, someone calling out the person’s name as he slumped to the floor from the blow Matt had just administered with the candlestick. A shorter figure followed Holmes inside, the light from the hallway falling over his features and revealing John Watson with closed fists, ready to attack whomever had hit his colleague. His eyes widened as soon as he recognised Matt, though, and he turned on the light switch next to the door before dropping to his knees to check on his partner, shaking him lightly by the shoulders.  
  
“Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?”  
  
The only reply was a pained groan, the tall figure rolling on the floor with a hand to his temple.  
  
“No, stay still, I need to check if you have a concussion. Or worse.” John looked up at Matt, who was clutching the candlestick with a white-knuckled grip. He seemed to be trembling slightly. “Do you have any idea the damage you can cause with a an object like that, especially to the head?”  
  
“As much damage as possible, I was hoping! The fuck do you think you're doing?” His voice was croaky but his eyes were flashing blue slits. John didn't know what to say in their defence, so he focused on Sherlock instead, making sure he was all right. Although his partner was making it difficult, as per usual.  
  
“You broke in my hotel room, what the fuck?!” Matt snarled.  
  
“ _Broke_ , you idiot,” Sherlock hissed, getting gracefully to his knees and batting John's concerned hands away. “It's broke, not  _bwoke_ . Learn how to speak properly!”  
  
Matt's eyes snapped with fury. “You can’t be fucking serious!” Was this wanker pointing out his speech impediment at a moment like this? He was brandishing the candlestick at him the next second. “Out. Out of my fucking room! Now!”  
  
“Wait. Please.” Standing with his hands raised, trying to calm Matt down, John sent a sharp look in Sherlock’s direction before addressing the singer again. This was all going horribly wrong. “Please, if only you’ll let me explain.”  
  
“What in the bloody hell were you trying to do?!”  
  
“I am so sorry, Matthew, we apologise. Can I call you Matthew?” John flinched, realising they weren’t exactly on a first name basis. “We are very sorry. This wasn't the most legal thing to do, we should have just asked, but...” He pointed towards a sulking Sherlock, who was now standing up with the wall's support. “He wanted to see the letters and, well, seeing as you didn’t have them with you earlier -“  
  
Matt’s disbelief was written all over his face.  
  
“We are already working on your case, Mr. Bellamy. We just... Well, we just hadn't told you that yet. We were expecting to have more to tell you when we spoke again. Right, Sherlock?” John prodded, his colleague's mighty pout telling him he wouldn’t be getting much support from that quarter. He’d have to convince Sherlock to let him check his head again later, but he had a feeling the injury to his ego had been far worse than the one to his skull.  
  
Observing them quietly, from the doctor’s embarrassment to the haughty attitude of his partner, Matt wasn’t sure what to make of them. “Piss poor excuse, if I’ve ever heard one. Why’d you go sneaking around behind my back?”  
  
“I know we started off on the wrong foot, but please believe me, we genuinely want to help,” John said appealingly, arms loose at his sides in an effort to look as non-threatening as possible. “Will you let us do that?”  
  
Silent for a few seconds more, Matt eventually put the candlestick down and started rummaging through a small case on the floor. There was an antique grand piano near a window in the expansive sitting room and John understood this was how Sherlock had known which was Matt’s suite. Finally the singer produced a small folder that he eyed for a moment, before tentatively offering it to John. It contained the letters.  
  
“There’s three of them, it’s all I have. I binned the first letter, I didn't think to keep it at the time,” he explained as John passed the folder to a slightly more interested Sherlock, so they could read the messages together. “But I remember what it said if you wanna write it down.”  
  
 _You have been discovered.  
Stop while you still can. Or I will do it for you.  
Justice will be done. Say your prayers._  
  
“The first one,” Matt continued, “said,  _You are a farce_ .”  
  
Showing no sign of his recent injury, Sherlock held the letters carefully and bent next to one of the lamps, just as Matt’s phone went off.  
  
“Do you mind? It’s just I really need to take this call.”  
  
John nodded, returning his attention to Sherlock who was now analysing each letter in the light, turning the paper over in his gloved hands.  
  
“All evidence obliterated by now, as expected.”  
  
John heard a soft, almost girly giggle and turned to see Matt standing next to the window with his phone at his ear. He couldn't decipher a word, but by the soft tone of his voice and the light smile on his lips he figured he could only be talking to his girlfriend.  
  
It was funny how someone he had seen on TV playing guitar and singing to massive, roaring crowds in stadiums like he was born to it could be so diminutive and, well, so not intimidating in person. Short and slightly built, with an unassuming presence and slightly awkward way of holding himself, it was difficult to imagine him commanding an audience like the ones John knew Muse attracted. Wearing a white t-shirt and some black jogging trousers with a stripe running down each leg, his brown hair was dishevelled, his face unshaven, and, oddly, he didn’t seem to be able to grow facial hair beyond his chin. In John’s opinion, Matt couldn't look less like a rock star if he tried.  
  
He ended the call just then and returned to their side. “Sorry about that.”  
  
“Congratulations, Mr. Bellamy.”  
  
Matt turned to Sherlock, taking in the detective's wry, twisted expression, that could almost be classed as a smile. “What for?”  
  
“You’ve got yourself a stalker.”

 

 

  



	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my ever faithful beta deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOL

For a moment Matt found himself speechless. He ruffled his already messy hair up at the back and swallowed, staring at the two men in front of him.  
   
“You mean...?”  
   
No answer was supplied and he set to pacing the suite’s sitting room, rubbing his face vigorously and becoming more agitated and distressed as he spoke. “Fuck, it can’t be... I... I always thought... are you sure?” Spinning around, he faced them, only to immediately resume pacing, habitually touching his nose and flailing his hands as he spoke. “No, no, no. I mean... Dom thinks that...” He stopped again. “What am I supposed to do now? And how can you tell?”  
   
“We are talking about a male, around sixty years of age, residing in London but has lived in Devon in the past, which is where he met you twenty years ago when you were a child,” Sherlock recited in a monotone as he carefully placed the letters back in the folder. “I need to take the letters with me to analyse them further, despite the fact that you’ve carelessly destroyed most of the evidence that could be taken from them. I also need to know exactly when you got each of these envelopes and at what hotels.”  
   
By this point, all signs of distress Matt had previously displayed had been replaced by doubt and suspicion. “Did you just make that up?”  
   
Sherlock’s face clearly expressed that he believed Matt’s question to be so dim it wasn’t even worth answering; the singer turned to John instead.  
   
“Did he just -“  
   
“No,” John assured, quickly realising that Matt was growing irritated, perhaps thinking Sherlock was mocking him. “No, he’s not -“ He stopped himself, as he saw Matt’s lips pursing into a tight line. “Sherlock, please take us through it.”  
   
“I don’t know why I expected any of you to understand.” Sherlock’s exasperation was directed at both of them this time. “Letters, John! They say older and traditional. The threats could have been made by e-mail or through a social networking site, but this was the way he chose to ensure that the message would be seen while the author remained undetected. Most likely he doesn’t have much contact with technology and does not feel comfortable with it.

“It’s confirmed by the handwriting, look at the style, it’s very distinctive.” He gestured towards the neat script on the one letter he still held. “Smooth, uniform, evenly spaced... Who can write like that effortlessly today? Someone who learnt calligraphy, perhaps, or someone who was taught hand writing in England, no later than the fifties. If this person had learnt calligraphy they would want to show off, but no, the style is simple, the lettering isn’t perfect and he didn’t use a calligraphic pen, so an older person it is.” Sherlock paused to make sure at least John was following; Matt only stared in astonishment. “No sign of romantic feeling in the messages, so this person isn’t trying to force a relationship and nothing suggests a possible attack of a sexual nature... clearly this is a ‘Resentful Stalker’, perpetuating an act of retaliation for something he perceives the victim has or hasn’t done. Combined with the absence of use of a phone or any other electronic device as a means of contact, plus the fact that most stalkers are male, statistically this pretty much rules out a female being responsible. It must be someone the victim knows, or once knew, as well, because, in most cases, the motivation is personal.  
   
Now, the stationery,” he flourished the letter in his hand. “All written on the same paper, it’s plain to see. By the fading of the colour and the texture I would say it is twenty years old. Perfectly ordinary paper, though, so why is he using it, why would he choose it? It holds some significance to him. Can only be from when you met. Conclusion, he knows you from your youth.”   
   
Matt watched as Sherlock folded the letter after his explanation, digesting the information just thrown at him. He was torn between expressing his wonder at Sherlock’s ability to gather so much from so little and claiming it was all wild speculation with no basis in solid fact; he wasn’t even making his deductions based on graphology, which Matt had previously wondered might be a way to find out more about the author of the notes.  
   
What had become painfully clear to the singer, though, was that the messages were, sadly, not part of an elaborate prank – they constituted a very real threat. He flopped onto the couch, shoulders sagging as he held his head between his hands. John couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. On the other hand, with Sherlock on the case, he knew the stalker would be caught in a matter of days.  
   
“What now?” Matt asked. “Should I call the police? Or d'you think you can find out who this bloke is...? I have no idea who he might be.”  
   
“I hate to repeat myself,” Sherlock sighed. “As I’ve said, I need to take the letters with me for a more thorough analysis. As for the police, I wouldn’t bother. They will offer you the worst advice available and do little to nothing of actual use. But I'll leave the decision in your very capable hands.”  
   
The sarcasm wasn't dripping so much as  _pouring_. Matt didn’t care how clever this Sherlock might be, he was getting tired of being insulted every time he was addressed by him. Still, he'd had enough of arguing for one day. This revelation had been like a punch to the gut, leaving him terribly confused and exhausted.

“Fine, take them, do whatever you need with them. As long as -”  
   
“I promise we’ll catch this person,” John offered with a comforting smile.  
   
Matt nodded at the polite doctor and then reached for his mobile so he could check what the dates he’d received each letter were. He briefly filled them in with all he could remember and hadn’t mentioned at their first meeting at the bar, hoping he wouldn’t regret his decision to trust them. Matt still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Sherlock Holmes, except that he was absolutely insufferable. John Watson appeared to be a decent bloke, though.   
   
They parted ways with the promise of being in contact soon and Sherlock and John nearly bumped into Dom in the lift, the drummer its only occupant when the doors opened at the musician’s floor.

The blond had a few drinks in him, but he sobered up when he recognised the two men.  
   
“What’re you doing here?”  
   
“We went for a stroll and decided to pop in for a little chat.” Sherlock stepped inside the lift, pulling John with him – the doctor’s attention had been helplessly diverted by the outrageous black and white leopard print shirt Dom wore underneath his leather jacket. “Do try not to keep Mr. Bellamy up the whole night,” Sherlock leaned confidentially towards the drummer, “we might be back early in the morning.”  
   
He winked at a stunned Dom just as the doors slid closed.

***

   
“Dull, dull, dull. All of it.” Sherlock was fully dressed, dark suit and light blue shirt, when John came downstairs the following morning. “Come, John, we need to meet Bellamy, I need more data.”  
   
The wall in their sitting room behind the sofa was starting to fill with scraps of paper – Sherlock's notes, copies of the letters, a London map with pins at the locations where the messages had been received; John could also distinguish a calendar with both Matt’s and Muse’s schedule for the past few months. It was good to see that Sherlock was giving the case his full attention, as John had been a bit afraid he might grow bored and stray, considering how much Matt seemed to annoy him for no reason.  
   
“Did you find anything new in the letters?”  
   
“Nothing relevant. His right shoulder was injured in January, but it had healed by the time he sent the most recent letter; impossible to tell if it’s a recurring condition or if it was a one-off caused by a small accident. And the back of one of the letters had a very light stain of coffee, recent, spilled from a cup on the table where he wrote it, but it’s a brand you could get in any supermarket.” He paused to pin another note to the wall. “Difficult to discover more considering the treatment the letters received from your favourite musician, which erased all evidence we could have gathered from them. But, at any rate, the stalker was wily enough to avoid leaving anything blatant. The only pleasant surprise so far in this case.”  
   
“Have you wondered if this may be an old piano or guitar teacher of Matthew's who, I don’t know, is upset at not being given enough credit?”  
   
“Unlikely. Bellamy’s very obviously self-taught. The grudge our stalker holds might not even be connected to Bellamy’s musical ability, but simply exacerbated by his success.”  
   
John furrowed his brow. “How do you know he’s self-taught? You didn’t listen to some of their songs while I wasn’t looking, did you?” He grinned.  
   
Sherlock returned the grin, with a mocking edge. He hadn’t, nor did he intend to. “Did you notice his fingers?”  
   
“Well...” John thought back to the previous day. “He’s got long, thin fingers, slender hands and wrists. I would definitely say he’s got the hands of a pianist. But I noticed when we shook hands that he also had ripped skin on one of his fingers, which I’d guess is from the guitar playing.”  
   
“Well done,” Sherlock nodded, but John could tell by the slight smirk that his response had been lacking, as per usual.  
   
“Don’t make fun of me. What about his fingers, then?”  
   
“He positions them entirely wrong when he has his hands on a table. Appalling discipline. Not formally trained.”  
   
Right. “Cup of tea before we go?”  
   
Unable to reach Matt by phone, they opted for contacting Dom, who explained that he was at Abbey Road Studios and they could meet him there. Led through several long corridors upon their arrival by a lackey who had been informed of their visit by the drummer, Sherlock and John were left on their own in a control room while they went to the recording area to fetch Matt, who could be seen from their spot and heard through the speakers.  
   
Playing the grand piano with a pair of large headphones on, Matt was completely oblivious to the outside world. And whatever he was playing, John liked it. The melody was beautiful, notes soaring as Matt's fingers danced across the keys, and he wondered whether it was an original composition or some classical piece, because it seemed slightly familiar to him. Perhaps something he'd heard at the flat, played on the violin. Sherlock would know.  
   
“Is that -” He turned to ask, but didn't finish the question.  
   
Sherlock was gazing at Matt with a look that the doctor could only describe as complete fascination. There was a softness to his angular features and a sparkle in his bright eyes that John couldn't recall ever seeing in the time he’d known Sherlock. It was awe and respect, with some surprise blended in, but there was something else. He seemed completely enchanted.  
   
“You like it.” It made John smile.  
   
“Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto no.2 in C Minor, Op. 18. Second movement, the  _Adagio Sostenuto_. But not the original. An interpretation, I'd say.” Sherlock appeared slightly breathless.  
   
It was a testament to Matt's incredible talent that even Sherlock was left amazed. John didn’t know more about music or bands than the average person in the street, but he was fairly sure that it was not very common to see a rock musician playing classical piano with such skill and soul, not to mention that, to his knowledge, Matt was also an acclaimed guitarist and singer. The music stopped abruptly as Matt lifted his head in the direction of the control room and saw them behind the glass. The spell was broken. Sherlock cleared his throat, rearranged his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat again.  
   
When Matt joined them, closing the door behind him, the first thing John noticed were the dark bags under his bloodshot eyes.  
   
“Bad night's sleep, Mr. Bellamy?”  
   
“No, I just...” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Just came here last night after you left, wanted to try out some new chords and prefer to do it at the studio. And you can call me Matt, please. It’s John, right?”  
   
“Yes, yes it is. That was lovely, by the way, what you were playing now.”  
   
“Oh, you liked that?” Matt grinned, high cheekbones popping and whole face lighting up. John couldn’t help but notice his extraordinarily piercing blue eyes, the sort that made women swoon; as if being a rock star wasn’t helpful enough in that department. “That's not mine, but thank you, thank you very much.”  
   
“You made it yours.”  
   
John turned to Sherlock, as did Matt, stunned at the detective’s praise. And there he was again, John noted, looking at Matt with eyes soft with regard. Despite the shock, the musician took the compliment with a smile.  
   
“Thanks, I was just...” His hands flailed self-consciously. “Just pissing around, really.”  
   
“It was... very good.” And Sherlock smiled.  
   
A genuine smile, John realised with the utmost surprise, not one of the fake ones he used to charm strangers when he wanted something from them. It suddenly dawned on him that an awkward silence had set in and Matt was looking between the two of them and waiting for someone to speak.  
   
“So, is there something you wanted to tell me?” Matt crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Did you find anything?”  
   
Sherlock began explaining in an uncharacteristically polite and patient manner how the letters had offered no more leads and that he wanted to follow up by investigating who might have access to his hotel reservations. Matt named Dominic Anderson, their tour manager and one of the select few who knew about the stalker, as the best person to contact for further information.  
   
“Though maybe you’ll want to talk to Tom, too, he’s in London now,” Matt added. “Tom Kirk, he’s a friend and been with us since the start. He does all the visuals, videos and all that website shi- oh, sorry for the language. I mean, he’s pretty involved with a lot of what goes on tour, too, you know, so maybe you’ll find it useful to have a chat with him. Just ask whatever you need, he’s great. I can call him right now, though he's probably still asleep. He’s a lazy bastard when we’re not touring.”  
   
Matt had fallen into his typical high speed speech and Sherlock simply gazed at him in silence, saying nothing even after he'd finished. Another awkward moment set in.  
   
“Uh, d’you want me to come, too?”  
   
“Oh, no,” Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and shifted his feet.  
   
“No, absolutely not. Entirely unnecessary. We can talk to them unaided.” And he whooshed out wearing a peculiar little smile, leaving Matt and John staring at each other in confusion.  
   
“Is he...” Matt scratched his head, intrigued. “Is he okay?”  
   
“Perfectly fine,” said John.  
   
“Ups and downs, is it?”  
   
“Ups and downs.”

***

   
They stopped by Tom Kirk’s flat, the band's media manager proving good natured and resourceful, offering to provide them with everything they might need. He gave them the names of the people that would definitely have access to the band’s hotel reservations and promised to e-mail them with everything he could recall that might prove useful.  
   
Tom also asked them if they were familiar with Muse’s music, and when John enthusiastically said he loved what he'd heard on the radio, Tom was quick to gift him with copies of all their albums and live DVDs. John had been thrilled, promising he’d listen to it all as soon as he had a chance.  
   
The phone conversation with Dom Anderson had been shorter but more straightforward, the band's tour manager explaining in detail to Sherlock how the hotel reservations were handled and exactly who would have access to that information in the management office, in order to track down any possible leaks.  
   
Despite it being Saturday, John left Sherlock working on his own at Baker Street and decided to head for the surgery to take on a pile of paperwork which had been begging for his attention for well over a week now.  
   
When John arrived home, mind settling back on the case and also on Sherlock’s curious behaviour towards Matt that morning, his jaw dropped comically upon entering the living room.  
   
His flatmate was stretched out on the leather couch, head propped against one arm, with a pair of headphones on. His eyes were closed and he was... it took John a moment to understand he was  _air drumming_. He didn’t know whether to laugh, save the moment with his mobile for future blackmailing purposes or, for some silly, irrational reason, kick him in the shin. He strode over to him, but Sherlock’s eyes snapped open long before he reached him and the tall detective leapt to his feet, removing the headphones and frantically running his fingers through his dishevelled hair.  
   
“John. You’re back.”  
   
“Sherlock...” John squinted, trying to read the screen of the laptop in Sherlock’s hands without much success. Was that a Muse fan messageboard? “What’re you doing...?”  
   
“It’s this, this song. ‘Citizen Erased’. It’s... and the piano coda... it’s...” Sherlock stammered. Sherlock never stammered. He straightened his back, his tone of voice changing completely.“I’m working on the case, obviously.” The laptop was snapped shut and the headphones tossed aside.  
   
John eyed him carefully. He’d been listening to the albums Tom Kirk had given him, that much he could tell. Bit surprising, but there was no need to get defensive about it, so he didn’t understand his flatmate’s reaction. Sherlock was acting so very oddly since the recording studio earlier in the day... more specifically, since he'd heard Matt at the piano.  
   
“Are you okay?”  
   
“Fine.”  
   
“You know,” John started. “It’s okay to admit that you like their music.” His stomach knotted as another possibility entered his mind, one that he'd failed to consider before. “Or if, you know, if you like,“ he cleared his throat. “If you like...”  
   
Could it be that Sherlock somehow  _fancied_ Matt..? Despite the man’s self-professed disinterest in matters of the heart or sexual activities in favour of brainwork, John had always assumed that he was more likely to find his flatmate with a boyfriend than with a girlfriend.  
   
“Thank you, John.”  
   
The tone was final, the conversation over. Sherlock whirled into the kitchen and, by the metallic sounds that followed, cupboard doors opening and closing, John concluded he was checking on his experiments.

***

  


   
At the Connaught Hotel, Matt, Dom and Tom finished dinner, chatting about the pair of detectives, among other things.  
   
“Don’t know how the doctor puts up with that git,” Dom commented, taking a sip of his mojito. “Maybe he’s that good a shag.”  
   
They all cackled and Tom stood, downing the rest of his drink. “It’s a question I ask myself on a regular basis: why the fuck do I put up with you two tossers, when there’s no sex involved? And while I know that you’d rather enjoy making it up to me tonight,” he continued to general groaning from his friends, ”I’m already taken. And off I go to a night of debauchery. Eleanor’s free.”  
   
“Enjoy it, mate. Every night could be your last with that one,” Dom goaded.  
   
“Still bitter that she didn’t fall for your charms?” Tom winked. “See you on Tuesday!”  
   
He left as the others sniggered.  
   
“You really think they’re fucking?” Matt asked. “I mean the detectives.”  
   
“No clue, I was just taking the piss.” Dom sipped his drink again.  
   
“Know who that Holmes bloke would like to get his hands on, though.”  
   
“Who?” Matt grinned, amused by Dom’s new found deductive skills.  
   
Dom gave him an incredulous look. “You, of course. Didn’t you see him checking you out yesterday when we met? Really fucking obvious he was, too.”  
   
“Piss off, he’s been a wanker from the start!” Matt paused. “Well, he was okay this morning. That was surprising, actually.”  
   
“Told you.”  
   
“Jealous, Howard?” He lowered his voice suggestively.  
   
“Ha. You wish,” Dom smiled smugly. “You couldn't find better elsewhere, you’re well served.”  
   
“And how d’you know that? Don’t remember sharing any details of my sex life with you lately.” He smirked; Matt knew exactly where the conversation was going.  
   
“You don’t have to. I know who gives you a good fuck whenever you need one.”  
   
Matt’s fingers tightened around his glass at the tone of Dom’s voice and his mouth went dry, an urge he recognised all too well burning bright and sudden inside him. How long had it been since their last time? Hard to believe the Manchester stadium gig had been all those months ago.  
   
“So, if you want someone to drop by your room later...” Dom left the offer hanging, taking another swig of his drink while staring intently at his friend over it.  
   
Matt swallowed thickly but when he met the drummer's charged gaze, reality set in and he let go of the memories and other undisclosed desires, finding himself chuckling at Dom’s slyness. It would take more than that for him to be swayed by him these days, he had other priorities now. “Go get yourself a bloody woman, can’t believe I need to tell  _you_ that,” Matt snorted, throwing his head back and stretching languidly in his seat. “You can come by for a bit of telly if you want, though.”  
   
“Nothing more had crossed my mind, mate,” Dom grinned sheepishly.

***

  


   
Matt brushed his teeth as the tub filled, then stripped his clothes and dropped them to the floor in a heap. A warm bath before bed did wonders. He reckoned Dom had been right about one thing - he definitely needed to alleviate the tension a bit, he’d been a nervous wreck since the previous day. Discovering he had a stalker, someone who could potentially become very dangerous, and desperately trying to keep the fact from his pregnant girlfriend while constantly looking over his shoulder... How much longer would she believe he remained in London on Muse business? And he couldn’t go back to Los Angeles now, he couldn’t possibly risk the threat following him.  
   
He let his whole body dip under the water, holding his breath for long seconds before coming up for air, resting his head on the rim of the tub. If he shut his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the steam fill his lungs, he could almost pretend he was on tour and the butterflies fluttering in his stomach were only the usual pre-gig nerves. He could pretend that, in a couple of hours, he would be on stage playing for thousands, a sea of arms in front of him, clapping hands and pumping fists, and the adrenalin running through his body kept him so alive and he could feel the music pounding inside him -  
   
He sat up abruptly, splashing water everywhere. A loud noise had jolted him out of his daydream, something that had come from the sitting room, as if a small but heavy object had tumbled to the floor. After a long, unbearably apprehensive pause, he sighed. It had to be Dom retrieving his mobile, which Matt had noticed he'd forgotten, and dropping something in the process, the clumsy git.  
   
“Don’t be so fucking noisy, Dom,” he called out. “I’m in the bath. Your phone’s on the coffee table.”  
   
Allowing his eyelids to droop closed once more, Matt glided down and resumed his previous position. But his body was soon tensing up again when no reply came from the drummer. It was eerily silent. Matt couldn’t help himself, there were alarm bells ringing in his head. So he slid out of the tub quietly, water trickling down his body to the floor as he grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist. He thought better and pulled his trousers on instead, stepping out of the bathroom stealthily, the material dampening in contact with his wet skin.  
   
“Dom?”  
   
The air outside the bathroom cooled his still exposed skin and he felt goose bumps forming. Reaching the suite’s sitting room, Matt scanned the area; there was no one there and only a small lamp lit, just as he'd expected. The window, though, was closed and blocking all sound from outside... when he'd left it ajar the entire evening. He’d been wrong - there  _was_ someone else in the hotel room. Heart hammering in his chest, he realised he ought to get out of there as fast as possible.  
   
Before he could move, however, his eyes fell on the reflection the window offered – there was a dark clad figure slithering in from the bedroom area, something in his hand. It was a gun.    
   
Matt’s mind went blank, his body switching to instinct mode. He dived for the protection offered by the high back of the couch just in time, miraculously escaping a hastily-fired shot. The muffled sound coming from the gun had the singer convinced the attacker was using a silencer, the idea confirmed when the man shot again, the bullet burying itself in the couch. The assailant walked steadily towards Matt, who rolled off the couch and crouched low, narrowly avoiding two more shots as he clumsily crawled around the coffee table, snatching up a small decorative pot that was tipped over on the carpet.  
   
"Help! Somebody help me!"  
   
He screamed bloody murder, knowing at the same time it was useless in the soundproofed room. The masked attacker was suddenly face to face with him and Matt flung the pot hard, hitting him square on the head. There was another shot that missed him by miles, a shout of pain from the other man and the sound of something thudding to the floor.  
   
"Dom! Dom, help me! Help! Somebody HELP ME!"  
   
He lunged for the gun that had slipped from the criminal’s hands, but the weapon slid from his sweaty fingers as the man also made a grab for it. Realising the attacker’s balaclava had slid out of place, Matt reached out and pulled the fabric off entirely to be able to look at his face. They stared at each other before a muffled voice broke the moment.  
   
"Matt!"   
   
Both men swung their heads towards the sound. It was coming from the connecting door to Dom’s room.  
   
"Matt, what's going on? I can’t get in, let me in!"  
   
It was Dom, he’d heard him! The drummer was banging on the door between their rooms, Matt realising that both that door and the main one had been blocked with chairs under the handles, and the moment of distraction was all it took for the attacker to grapple back the gun and gain the upper hand, Matt falling back at his feet. He swallowed, helpless as the man pointed the gun at him from above, finger on the trigger. There was nowhere to hide. But the man hesitated and was glancing nervously to where Dom had just stopped loudly thumping. In a fit of rage, he kicked Matt harshly, the singer grunting in pain and curling in on himself, only to receive another blow to his lower back that made his eyes water.  
   
Bracing himself for the worst, Matt gritted his teeth, determined not to go down without a fight, but instead of another kick or a gunshot, the sound that followed was that of his opponent stepping quickly away. The main door opened, Dom’s shouting suddenly loud and clear, and there was a quick struggle with some pushing and shoving before Matt understood the man was gone.  
   
Dom hesitated between following the thug, who was running down the corridor towards the lift and stairs, and checking on Matt. But when he glanced inside the room and saw his band mate lying on the floor, the answer was obvious. Breathing hard and sick with worry and fear, Dom sank to his knees next to Matt, who had his elbows covering his face, fingers twisted in his wet hair. His upper body was moving rapidly as he breathed and it was with a pang of relief that Dom discerned there was no blood anywhere. There were more voices outside the room now, of people gathering in the hallway.  
   
"Matt."  
   
Laying a warm hand on his friend’s bare shoulder, firm but gentle, Dom prompted him to turn and face him.  
   
"It’s me, it’s okay now.” He’d removed Matt’s arms from over his face but he still had his eyes tightly closed.

“He's gone."


	3. Chapter Three

 

 

  


 

Sherlock had been pacing the sitting room of 221B for awhile, the Chinese takeaway John had left for him on the table untouched and long gone cold. Having spent most of the day at the computer or lying on the sofa with a couple of nicotine patches on his arm, he was painfully aware that he was no closer to finding the stalker than he had been before speaking to Dominic Anderson and Tom Kirk that morning.    
  
“Everybody with access to the information about the band’s hotel reservations is clean,” he announced, just as the sound of an incoming text was heard. “If it’s Mycroft, delete it.”   
  
“What?” John looked away from the TV and frowned at him from his spot slumped in his armchair. It was very late, he should probably go to bed.   
  
“My phone. I’ve received a text. Delete it if it’s from Mycroft, he’s been pestering me again. Quite desperate for assistance, if he’s lowered himself to texting rather than calling.”   
  
“Right.” John couldn't gather the energy to be annoyed at the peremptory tone. He straightened immediately as he read the message. “It’s not your brother, Sherlock, it’s Dominic!” His jaw dropped. “My God, someone attacked Matt tonight at the hotel!” He had barely reached the end before Sherlock was beside him, ripping the Blackberry from his hands. “The police are already there.”   
  
“Come along, John.” Sherlock shoved the phone in his pocket and started towards the stairs.   
  
  
***   
  
  
When they arrived at the hotel, the door to Matt’s suite was wide open, the Metropolitan Police conducting a search of it, two police constables bent over the couch, examining the cushions. Muse’s front man and drummer were sitting side by side on the opposite couch, their thighs pressed together despite there being room enough for at least two more people. They were conversing in low voices, Dom resting a hand on Matt’s knee briefly, squeezing gently.   
  
“What happened?” Sherlock strode over to them.   
  
A dishevelled Matt nodded his head in acknowledgement of the pair and stood to greet them, grimacing and discreetly taking a hand to his back as he did so. The motion didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock, nor did the ugly bruise forming on the pale skin above his elbow. The detective sat on the coffee table in front of the two, while John stood with his arms crossed at his side.   
  
“Thanks for coming.” Dom smiled weakly.   
  
Matt explained what had happened, describing the bulky, blond man who had attacked him as best he could. His voice didn’t shake, but the look in his eyes betrayed the real scare he’d gotten.    
  
“I don’t understand, why did he run? He could’ve... killed Matt right here.” Dom looked from Sherlock to John.   
  
“Oh, he wasn’t going to shoot anyone at that stage,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. “His plan was ruined the moment Matthew managed to alert you to his presence.” He turned to face the singer. “He kicked you in the back, obviously. But not in an attempt to recover the gun. You were defenceless on the floor by then. Why do you think he did that?”   
  
Matt’s blue gaze remained locked with Sherlock’s silver one. “He was pissed off.”   
  
“Yes, precisely. He was already aware he had failed in his mission.” Sherlock nodded, John following the exchange with interest. “How old do you estimate he was?”   
  
“Um, I don’t know. I got a good look at his face, but it’s hard to tell. Maybe thirty-five? Forty at most, I reckon.” Matt paused, trying to read the look the detective gave his partner. “What, you think he wasn’t the stalker?”    
  
“I am  _sure_  he wasn’t the stalker.”   
  
“Come on, then who the hell was he?!” Matt’s eyes widened. “I know what you said last night when you saw the letters, that he was old and all that, but maybe you’re wrong, this bloke must have something to do with the messages! Dom’s told the police the whole story and they agree, they said it’s him.”   
  
John flinched in anticipation, but the scathing, derisive reply he half-expected from Sherlock never came. Instead, his flatmate took him by surprise again by shaking his head in mild negation, resting his elbows on his knees and inching closer to the edge of his makeshift seat, leaning towards Matt with an intense look.   
  
“Listen to me,” he said. “Yes, this incident is undeniably connected to the letters, but this isn’t the man we’re looking for.  _That_  man got someone else to do his dirty work tonight...” He stared blankly at the floor, his mind going over the possibilities and permutations of a case which was turning out to be ever so slightly more interesting than he'd anticipated. "Why would someone of a fairly meticulous nature hire a petty thug who loses his temper easily for this task? It doesn't fit. What was it about you that made him change his methods...” Sherlock added, almost to himself as he stood to glance around the room, pivoting abruptly on the spot to look back at Matt. “What is it about you... you’re different, what makes you...” He narrowed his eyes assessingly and then his features relaxed as the answer came to him. “Oh.” There was a glint in his eye, a smirk creeping onto his face.   
  
“What is it?” Matt demanded.   
  
“Don’t you see? This isn’t new for him." Sherlock's speech sped up as enlightenment dawned . "He's accustomed to the hunt, it is very likely this isn’t the first time he's stalked someone. But he does it alone, if tonight’s abysmal failure is anything to go by. So, again, what is it about you that made him change tactics? What is it...” The progression of his thoughts was interrupted when his gaze met Matt’s once more.   
  
Despite everything, Matt found himself trusting this odd man, whose icy, dispassionate shell had cracked completely, revealing the passion beneath. He obviously enjoyed his job; Matt didn’t think that was a bad thing. “All right, it wasn't him. So who was he and what did he want?”   
  
“Mr. Bellamy,” another voice intruded. A Met sergeant, accompanied by a smartly dressed middle-aged man, was standing nearby, eyeing Sherlock and John doubtfully. “And you are?”   
  
“He works for me,” Matt stated firmly. “He's Sherlock Holmes, the detective I mentioned to you earlier.”   
  
“Right,” the sergeant sniffed dismissively. “Mr. Bellamy, the gun your stalker used -“   
  
“Not his stalker,” Sherlock interjected.   
  
“Excuse me. Of course this attack was perpetrated by Mr. Bellamy’s stalker.”   
  
“Of course it  _wasn’t._ But you wouldn’t be able to see that a mere  _hour_  after your arrival, would you? A detailed explanation of the situation in advance and three weeks to digest the information and you'd still be floundering about in ignorance like a Medieval peasant.” There was a shocked silence, then a stifled snigger. Everyone turned to Matt, who was unsuccessfully hiding a grin behind his hand. Sherlock blinked before allowing a small smile to grace his lips as Matt looked away and cleared his throat. “But you were saying?” He addressed the police officer again. “I believe you were about to inform us how the gun this man fired did not contain real bullets.”   
  
“I -“ The sergeant narrowed his eyes and puffed out his chest, the surprise diverting his attention from the insult. “And how do you know that?” His sudden suspicion that Sherlock was involved was obvious.   
  
“He wasn’t here to kill Mr. Bellamy, he was here to abduct him. And take him to the real stalker, clearly. The gun was meant as a method of persuasion, but he would never have shot at Mr. Bellamy multiple times if those were real bullets. It was never his intention to cause serious injury or death. Those were tranquilliser darts.”   
  
“Like a hunter...” Matt breathed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and sharing a look with Sherlock.   
  
“Any idea what incapacitating agent was used?” John asked, arms still crossed tightly over his chest, face stern.   
  
“We’re collecting the darts for analysis and will have the report tomorrow. In the mean time, we would strongly advise Mr. Bellamy to exercise caution, because -“   
  
“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock butted in, rolling his eyes. “We already know there’s nothing you can do to protect him.”   
  
“Excuse me,” the middle-aged man accompanying the officer spoke up, twisting his hands nervously. “The Connaught Hotel deeply regrets what happened and apologises profusely for the inconvenience caused. We'll move you to a new room, of course, and are more than willing to provide -”   
  
“I don’t need any bloody protection. I’ll be fine here,” Matt mumbled stubbornly, looking at the floor.   
  
“Just like you were tonight?” Dom was incredulous and, ignoring Matt’s protests, turned to both the police officer and the hotel manager. “We’ll get one of our bodyguards to be with Matt at all times from tomorrow on. Tonight, he stays with me. And we appreciate the offer to change rooms, but, as it won't make any difference now, we'll leave that for tomorrow, too.” In the drummer's opinion, changing hotels was the next step, but that could wait until Matt had got some rest. He turned to face Sherlock and John. “You'll want to have a look around, right?”   
  
“They can’t -“   
  
“Splendid. Ten minutes will suffice,” Sherlock said. ”And then I'll need the footage from the hotel's surveillance cameras.” He paused to stare intently at Matt. “Will you be all right?”   
  
Resting a hand on Matt’s shoulder, Dom was the one who replied. “He’ll be fine, thank you. He refused to see the medic that came with the police,” he glared at his band mate, ”but I’ll take him to a hospital tomorrow for a check-up, just in case. Come on, Matt.”   
  
John watched as Dom tugged his friend into following him, the hotel manager leading them away. Sherlock observed them as they left, then set off to examine what had become a crime scene, infuriating the Met in the process, as usual.   
  
Overlooked as it may have been by the others, John could not recall a time when Sherlock had shown such a genuine level of concern for a victim during a case as he had just demonstrated with Matt. His stomach in a knot and unsure as to  _why_ , John only knew that he was beginning to get anxious for the case to be solved.   
  
  
***   
  
  
Dom came out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth to find Matt settling himself on the couch in the sitting room, a thin blanket covering him from the waist down.   
  
“Matt, what are you doing?”   
  
“What does it look like to you, genius?”   
  
Smiling softly, the drummer poked at the blanket with a toe. “Come on, get up.” Matt gave him a blank look and Dom nodded towards the bedroom. “Bed. Proper bed”   
  
Matt scoffed and rolled over, turning his back on his band mate. Unperturbed, Dom sat on the edge of the couch and placed a hand against the jut of Matt's shoulder blade. He almost expected him to recoil, but at the touch the singer relaxed, taking a deep breath as Dom started rubbing his back. Stroking lightly up and down, the motion drew a muffled groan from Matt when the blond brushed the injured spot on his lower back.   
  
“Stay with me tonight,” Dom whispered.   
  
  
***   
  
  
When the drummer stirred in the dark and ventured a glance aside at Matt, he realised his friend was awake, staring at the ceiling contemplatively. The alarm clock on the bedside table read 5am.   
  
For awhile the only sound was the idle scratching of Matt’s fingernails against cotton as he fidgeted with the bed sheet, bundling and unbundling it from around his fist; but he was well aware that Dom had not gone back to sleep.   
  
“D'you remember... d'you remember how we never used to care about dying? I mean, course we didn't want to die, but it didn't worry us, know what I mean? You remember that, Dom?”   
  
Matt's random wonderings at strange moments had stopped being a novelty for the drummer years ago, and it always amused him that his friend didn’t necessarily need a response to continue. But Dom did - he did remember those days, it wasn’t that long ago. He knew well what his band mate was talking about.   
Careless. Living for the moment. Never worried about the consequences of their actions. Death was fascinating to them, subject of discussion on many nights, both drunken and sober, but nothing they truly feared. They still did far too much stupid shit. Being in a band, and a successful one at that, gave them that freedom. It allowed them, in a certain respect, to forever remain feckless teenagers. But in light of recent events, Dom had a pretty good idea exactly what was keeping Matt awake.   
  
“You're going to watch your kid grow up, Matt. Nothing's going to happen to you. You're not going to die now, we’re gonna catch the bastard.”   
  
The silence that followed meant Dom had hit the nail on the head. Matt rolled onto his side with a grunt and gripped Dom's wrist, making him turn as well, so they were both lying on their sides facing each other. It was dark but not black, and he could see Matt perfectly. And even if he couldn’t, he was sure that he could close his eyes and still map out every single detail of Matt’s face; every inch of his body.   
  
“I need you to promise me something,” Matt squeezed Dom's wrist almost painfully. “If something happens to me -”   
  
“No,” Dom refused to even let such a thought enter his head. “Nothing's gonna happen to you. And you know what, this isn’t the time or the place -”   
  
“We  _are_  having this talk. Nobody knows me as well as you do, Dom, you know you're the person I trust the most in the world.” Matt's voice was steady, without a hint of the awkwardness that usually seeped through his words whenever the conversation took an emotional turn. “You're going to promise me that if something happens to me you're going to be there for my kid and treat him or her as you know I would.”   
  
“I don't think...” Dom swallowed. He could claim that his friend was being silly and very much choosing the wrong person to have this conversation with, but his intent was crystal clear. “You want me to be the baby’s godfather.”   
  
“Call it whatever you want. I don't care what's it called, or even if it has a sodding name. Just promise me you'll be there if I can't, Dom. Please. Say you will and I won't ask you for anything else ever again.”   
  
It wasn’t such an unexpected request, but Dom’s skin still prickled in response. Pride, flattery, gratitude, he didn’t know what it was. Never mind a successful career filled with praise and accolades,  _this_  was the sort of thing that he would look back on with fondness; one of the special moments that filled his life with meaning.   
  
He scooted nearer Matt in the bed, feeling his body heat, and he was transported back to when they were hardly out of their teens, lumped together in the back of a van with the band’s cheap equipment, away from prying eyes, pressing their bodies close while Chris or one of their mates drove through the night to the next gig. They were past thirty now and the bed was large, the sheets luxurious; they didn’t need to bundle up against each other to avoid the cold. The feelings, though, they remained the same. “You can ask anything of me. Always.”   
  
He was rewarded with a serene smile from Matt, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He looked impossibly young when he smiled like that. “Thank you,” the pianist whispered, finally closing his eyes. He complied willingly when Dom slid an arm around his waist and pulled him close.   
  
Lips brushing the corner of Matt’s mouth, Dom smiled when the silly goatee he insisted on sporting lately scratched him. “Love you, too.”   
  
  
***   
  
  
“Get up, John. John!”   
  
Shifting uncomfortably in his armchair, the doctor took a hand to the back of his neck, rolling his head around carefully. Light was filtering through the curtains and he glanced resignedly at his watch. 9am. Great, no chance of a proper sleep now.   
  
“Come on, John! We can stop for breakfast on the way if you really must.” Sherlock was circling the flat, agitated. “I've discovered who broke into Matthew's room last night.”   
  
That woke John up. “Who?”   
  
“George Rufus, age thirty-five. He has a criminal record, consisting mostly of property damage. I was able to track him down through the surveillance footage.” He put his suit jacket on over a pristine white shirt as he spoke. “His car was parked on the other side of the road, a blue Ford Fiesta. The license plate was obscured but not difficult to find out. And now for the most interesting part - the same car was in the exact same spot Friday night.”   
  
“He's been following Matt!” John was wide awake now. “You think... Sherlock, he might have planned to attack Matt on Friday, but he didn’t... because we were with him!”   
  
“Yes, my thoughts precisely. Also...” Sherlock snatched a picture from the desk and nearly shoved it in John's face, the doctor standing up to grab it from him. It was an old photograph of a school class. “I got this from his Facebook account. Know where it was taken?”   
  
“At a school?” John offered lamely. Sherlock didn't deign to reply. “You don’t mean... at the same school  _Matt_  went to?”   
  
“Rufus’s parents worked in sales and moved often in his youth, until they finally settled in Leeds. Guess where he spent his high school years? Exeter, Newton Abbott, Torquay, Plymouth...”   
  
“In Devon. And you'd already determined the stalker met Matt when he was growing up, in Teignmouth.”   
  
“Don’t you see, John? School!  _That_  is the connection! Which adults besides family have the most contact with children and teenagers? Who would consider himself a good judge of someone’s abilities? Matthew’s stalker was one of his  _teachers_ .” Sherlock was almost breathless. “Rufus’s last known address is in south London, where he lives with his wife and children. We’re going there now. I need to question him. Our man must have been a teacher of his, too.”   
  
John was already slipping his jacket on, but slowed at that. “Sherlock, we should go to the police first. They’ll arrest him.”   
  
“No,” he stated. “There’s no time for that and they’d just scare him away.”   
  
John considered for a moment before running upstairs to get his gun. It would be impossible to make the detective change his mind; the least he could do was not let him go by himself.   
  
  
***   
  
  
“Yeah, can I help you?”   
  
On the other side of the door a plump blonde eyed Sherlock and John warily. The cry of a child echoed from inside the house.   
  
“Hello. Mrs. Rufus, I presume? Is your husband home?” Sherlock questioned.   
  
“No.” Her mouth twisted in displeasure. “Why? Who’re you?” She suddenly looked behind herself at the sound of glass breaking. “Oi! What the bloody hell have you two done now? Go back to your room!”   
  
John looked aside at his partner, cringing inwardly, but Sherlock was focused on scanning what he could see of the interior.   
  
“Listen ‘ere, I’m busy, so what do you want with George?” She put her hands on her hips. “Did he do something? He told me he'd left the dodgy schemes in the past; he’s trying to straighten his life out. I’ll put him out of the house if I find he lied to me!”   
  
“We’re just wondering if you could tell us where he was last night?” John finally asked, noticing Sherlock had ignored the question and was staring at an untidy child who had snuck up behind his mother to stick his tongue out at the two with a wicked smile.   
  
“Went down to the pub to watch the footie and said he was filling in for someone at this bakery where he does some work sometimes after. He’s still unemployed so he takes what he can get. Hasn’t got back yet, he’s bloody late.”    
  
“Mrs. Rufus, does your husband own a computer?” Sherlock asked. John saw the child was now clinging to his mother’s legs, frowning.   
  
“Not that I know of.” She raised her eyebrows. “Ian threw his old laptop out the window last year.”    
  
“Thank you for your time,” Sherlock said, shamming politeness. “Have a nice day.” The child burst into tears, pointing accusingly at the detective as they turned to leave, Mrs. Rufus's yells to get the boy to shut up audible even after the door closed. “We won’t find anything relating to his activities inside, it’s clearly not an environment our stalker would approve of him working in. Rufus has a Facebook account that he updates regularly, although his wife isn’t aware he’s got regular access to a computer. He must have it all in his car,” he mused. “Now the question is, where is he?”   
  
“What did you do to the kid?” John demanded once they were in a cab, the Mayfair police station their next destination.   
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“The little brat. You made a face at him, didn’t you? He was sticking his tongue out at us and then when we left he was pointing at you and crying.” John grinned when he saw Sherlock pursing his lips in that peculiar manner he’d learnt to recognise as amusement. “A child, Sherlock. Seriously? How old are you again?”   
  
“I have absolutely  _no_  idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
They arrived at the station twenty minutes later, Sherlock barging in and heading straight for the sergeant's desk.   
  
“The man who attacked Mr. Bellamy last night. His name is George Rufus.”   
  
“Yeah, we know.”   
  
Sherlock couldn't hide his surprise. “You do? How novel.” He surveyed the desk, but nothing relating to the case was on display. “Yet, you haven’t arrested him nor been to his house. Why?”   
  
“Arresting him would be rather difficult now. He's dead. Family’s about to be informed.”   
  
“What happened?” John blurted.   
  
“Drowned. Found in the Thames an hour ago by a construction worker who called it in. He was armed and had recent photos of Bellamy in a pocket, so the connection was made. Case closed.”   
  
“The case is far from being closed,” Sherlock’s voice had lowered dangerously. “He was an accomplice, hired muscle. The person who engineered all this is still out there and poses a significant threat. Why do you think Rufus is dead?”   
  
“Too much drink, fell in the river. Happens all the time.”   
  
“So you choose to ignore the signs that his death is suspiciously convenient? Is it because there's less paperwork if you declare it an accident?” He leaned over the desk, palms flat, stance confrontational. “It appears the Met set new standards of stupidity every day.”   
  
John took a hand to his temple in despair.   
  
“Take your investigation somewhere else, Holmes. We're done here.”   
  
The sergeant all but booted them out, but not before Sherlock asked a final question. “Mr. Bellamy. Has someone at least bothered to inform him?”   
  
“I'm afraid you'll have to talk to the Detective Chief Inspector about that. If he can be arsed to speak to you. You see, he’s been warned.” He smiled unpleasantly and Sherlock turned his back on him, leaving without another word.   
  
“Idiots,” he sniffed, John trailing right behind.   
  
“You think he was murdered by the stalker, don't you?”   
  
Sherlock was fiddling with his phone as he looked right and left on the street, trying to spot a cab. “Call Matthew to see if he's been summoned to identify Rufus as the man who attacked him and wait here for him and Dominic. I need you to gather as much information as you can about the circumstances of his death and find out whether they’ve found his car.”   
  
“And you?”   
  
“I need to see the body, I’m going to Bart’s. We're dealing with someone far more dangerous than anyone gives him credit for, John. There’s something I’m missing.”   
  
  
***   
  
  
The phone call from the police with the news of the attacker’s death hadn’t come as a relief for either Matt or Dom, rather the opposite. If Rufus was indeed operating under the orders of someone else, him showing up dead after failing to complete his task could mean the Muse front man was in far more danger than he had first appeared to be.   
  
The drummer had been on the phone to Dom Anderson, their tour manager, discussing what to do and asking him to return from New York when John had rung to check on their whereabouts.   
  
The two musicians arrived at the police station shortly after, accompanied by Jason, one of the band’s bodyguards. Dominic, in particular, looked quite troubled, John noted, which seemed to be reflected in his outfit, the blond's clothes surprisingly subdued. But he couldn’t help wondering whether Matt had been able to retrieve any of his belongings from his suite before they left the hotel. The doctor’s descriptive powers had improved leaps and bounds since he'd started blogging about his adventures with Sherlock, but he was still stumped by Bellamy's outfit. His trousers, clearly part of a suit, were brown, but they were also somehow purple, and they  _glittered_ . He'd paired them with a blue and red plaid work shirt, a grey tartan scarf and a black winter coat. Rock star eccentricity was all very well – but there was eccentricity and there was genuinely not having a clue and, in his opinion, Matt was fashionably clueless.   
  
However, he readily identified the man who had attacked him the previous night from the photos the police showed him and had no qualms about raising several questions with the DCI. Despite his valid concerns, he was repeatedly told there was no more reason to worry. Reportedly, they had found a couple of Muse albums at Rufus's house, which was apparently enough to suggest that he was an obsessive follower of the band and therefore cement their theory that he’d been the one who sent the letters. For all intents and purposes, the case was closed.   
  
Sherlock had texted John to inform him he’d meet them at the hotel bar and was positively fuming when he arrived.   
  
“Molly is on holiday and nobody else will allow me access to the body,” he announced disdainfully. “They say the most they can do is give me a copy of the autopsy report. What for? It is the  _body_  I need to see. The report is useless, as they'll miss everything of importance!”   
  
“Fucking hell, why don’t they let you go in if you do it all the time anyway?” Matt asked in exasperation, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.   
  
It had not been an easy morning for the singer. It had dawned on him while still at the police station that there was a possibility the stalker knew his mother and he’d just had a difficult conversation with his brother Paul where he'd tried to explain what was going on with the minimum of detail and that he needed him to convince their mother to go visit him and his family for a few days to get her out of Devon. He hadn’t quite worked out yet how to talk to his girlfriend’s parents without coming across as a paranoid freak or leaving them worried to death.    
  
“We should pack and change hotels, you know,” Dom suggested when both Sherlock and John rose to leave and continue working at Baker Street, the detective deeming it essential now to go through every teacher Matt and George Rufus had had at school. The data was archived locally but Tom Kirk had called in a favour from an acquaintance in Teignmouth and already e-mailed them the names of Matt’s teachers. Rufus’s were likely to be available the following day.   
  
“That’s great, that’s awesome. Jumping from hotel to hotel, hiding now, is it?” Matt complained, gesticulating broadly. “Isn’t that what he wants, to frighten me? He likes this, doesn’t he?” He asked Sherlock. “He likes to have this control over me, to have this power. Fucking psycho, bet he gets off on it.”    
  
“It really isn’t safe for you to wander around,” John said, half apologetically.   
  
“And there's nothing we could help you with?” Matt asked. “There must be something we can do, something  _I_  can do?”   
  
  
***   
  
  
“So you two live together?”   
  
Dom admired the large, eclectic sitting room of 221b Baker Street, the tall windows letting the light in through Mrs. Hudson’s curtains. It wouldn’t be long until sunset.    
  
John could tell the drummer liked their flat. What he couldn’t tell was  _why_  Sherlock had felt the need to invite them both there. Not that he minded, not at all, but it nagged at him, what Sherlock’s real reason had been. It wasn’t as though he needed Matt to investigate his teachers; it wasn’t even necessary to keep Matt safe, as he could afford to have one bodyguard (or several) at his disposal twenty-four hours a day, if he so wished. The two band mates had bickered in private for a few minutes at the hotel before they  had accepted Sherlock’s offer, dismissing Jason for the remainder of the day.   
  
Sherlock was stuffing newspapers away and making an effort at clearing the room in a manner that made John recall the first time he had set foot inside the place himself. “We’re flatmates.”   
  
Dom nodded and glanced furtively at Matt.   
  
“We work together,” John added. He’d grown accustomed to  _that_  assumption by now. “Kind of like you two.”   
  
“Not really like you two,” Sherlock instantly corrected.   
  
Matt and Dom, standing side by side, exchanged an inscrutable look, but neither of them replied. And then the singer spotted the music stand near the couch and the violin case on the floor.   
  
“Is that a violin?” He turned to Sherlock enthusiastically, who nodded briefly. “Is it yours? You didn’t mention you could play.”   
  
“I... I do. A bit.”   
  
John couldn’t believe Sherlock’s reaction. Was he turning a light shade of pink?   
  
“He plays very well, he’s being modest,” John snapped. Sherlock was absolutely brilliant on the violin. And modesty didn’t suit him.   
  
“You'll have to play a bit for us later.”   
  
Still smiling and oblivious to John’s irritation, Matt turned around to inspect the rest of the sitting room, the doctor pettily wishing he’d stumble upon one of Sherlock’s unnerving experiments, perhaps a flask containing severed fingers in battery acid.   
  
But Matt’s attention was diverted by something else – the notes, pictures and other evidence relating to the case pinned to the wall. His smile faded as he walked towards it. The letters, reports from the police about Rufus, school photos of him... Sherlock had silently joined him.   
  
“D’you always solve the cases you take?”   
  
“Always,” Sherlock assured him, Matt nodding and taking a deep, fortifying breath. The detective extended his hand towards the desk confidently. “Shall we?”

 

  


 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to my beta for Sherlock's insult towards the Met sargeant - A detailed explanation of the situation in advance and three weeks to digest the information and you'd still be floundering about in ignorance like a Medieval peasant. - in fact, I specifically requested her help there cos I'm crap at witty jokes and she's marvelous. Thank you! :D


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my ever faithful beta deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOL

 

 

The hours passed.  
  
There were abandoned takeaway containers on the floor and John found himself dozing off, sunk into his favourite armchair, his head heavier and heavier despite his best efforts to stop his eyelids from drooping. Dom was already asleep, stretched out on Sherlock's thinking couch with his mouth gaping. Sherlock and Matt were both wide awake, though. Sat Indian-style on the floor facing each other like two children, they were going over the material they’d gathered about the case, which was spread in a circle surrounding them.  
  
It had been with a pang of jealousy (which he had acknowledged but persisted on trying to ignore) that John had realised how he'd never thought he'd see Sherlock working closely with someone other than him without it descending into a slanging match. It was like he’d established in his mind that he was the only person Sherlock could work with. And John had taken pride in that, relishing how someone as brilliant as the detective, who deemed nearly the entirety of the human race idiotic and uninteresting, made no secret of desiring his assistance - to the point of consistently interfering in John’s life in a bid to have the doctor's sole attention at all times. It was often inconvenient and inappropriate, it could leave John seething. Yet, now that he was seeing someone else in his role, however temporarily, it irked him in a way he didn't want to acknowledge.  
  
But there they were, both gesticulating gracefully as they spoke in a quiet murmur, closing the distance between them as their heads bent together over a document...  
  
... and it was at one of these moments that it started. They didn’t pull away. Instead, they lifted their gazes from the photo Sherlock held and gazed at each other. They were so close their mouths were nearly brushing. John found himself frozen in anticipation, everything happening in slow motion. He saw their lips puckering, Matt tilting his head slightly to one side and Sherlock closing the distance between them.   
  
Sherlock was human after all, he could kiss and be kissed in return. But John couldn’t draw his eyes away from the two, had no thought of offering them privacy, as they shared one, two, three brief, coy kisses. Until Matt’s tongue slid out to trace Sherlock’s upper lip, teasing, and the detective responded by angling his head and lunging forward to take his mouth fully. John’s initial enthralment vanished. He yearned for them to stop, to draw away and fight the magnetic pull that was drawing them to one another. But there was nothing he could do.   
  
Mouths locked, tongues stroking, it was impossible for John to know to whom the choked gasp he heard belonged. Sherlock’s hand was cradling one side of Matt’s face and Matt’s fingers had curled around a handful of Sherlock’s hair. They were soon panting, shifting on the floor to get closer and the room filled with their heavy breaths, the sound of lips colliding, soft moans of encouragement.  
  
With both Matt’s hands twisted in his hair, Sherlock started gently pushing the other man flat on the couch (when did they move to the couch? And hadn't Dom been sleeping there?), laying on top of him and finally releasing his mouth.  
  
“Beautiful...” He whispered as he loosened Matt’s scarf and tossed it away to pepper small kisses along his throat, the singer groaning and pushing towards his touch. “You’re so beautiful... everything about you... extraordinary...”  
  
And John didn’t recognise those words in Sherlock’s voice, but they had been real. He tried to tell himself that it was good that Sherlock was attracted to someone like Matt, someone so talented and so nice... and yes, if he looked objectively at Matt he had to admit that, despite his slight stature, he was an attractive man, with those intense blue eyes and high cheekbones. But then John focused on what was happening on the couch, where all those breathy sounds of pleasure were emanating from, and it wasn’t happiness or even resignation that filled him at seeing his flatmate atop the singer, the two writhing against each other as they kissed fervently...   
  
  
John woke abruptly, the wave of relief that crashed over him almost making him laugh: it had only been a dream. There were two sets of equally bright and piercing eyes fixed on him, though. It took him a moment to realise it wasn't double vision, but it was disconcerting, nonetheless. Why were they watching him? Had he said something in his sleep...?  
  
Matt’s scarf had been removed and was draped on Sherlock’s favourite chair, while Sherlock himself was no longer wearing his suit jacket, and the sleeves of his slim-fit white collared shirt were rolled up to his elbows. Face heating in shame as the dream came back to him, John attempted to occupy his mind with something new.  
  
“Is that wine?” There were two glasses of red wine and a bottle in between the two men. He didn’t remember having any wine in the flat.  
  
“We went out to get a bottle,” Matt said. “Fancy a glass? Sorry if our chatting woke you up, you were saying something in your sleep about us stopping.”  
  
John blanched. “I... I must’ve dozed off. Sorry”  
  
Not only had he nearly been caught, but the reality he was now presented with was almost as disjointed as his dream and John didn’t know which part of it was worse: Sherlock drinking wine at home; Sherlock going out with someone to get said wine while in the middle of a case; Sherlock  _chatting_ . He didn’t  _do_  idle chit chat, so what would they talk about if not the case? He swallowed. Music, maybe they were talking about music. That would be a common interest. Christ, they’d be fawning over each other. He glanced over at Dominic, unconsciously seeking assistance, but the drummer was still sprawled on the couch, sleeping soundly and oblivious to the fact that his friend and Sherlock were not exactly working.  
  
“You okay?” Matt asked again, hesitant; Sherlock quietly observed the scene, disturbingly perceptive as always.  
  
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I... I need to sleep. I have a full morning at the surgery tomorrow.”  
  
It was an outright lie and he immediately regretted it, hastily standing up to avoid meeting Sherlock’s eye - he knew his schedule as well as John did.  
  
But he couldn’t bear to stay in the room any longer.  
  
No sooner had his head dropped to his pillow, butterflies still fluttering in his stomach, than he heard a drawn out moan coming from downstairs. And against all sense, he tiptoed down the stairs and peeked from behind the kitchen doors. He exhaled in relief; it was only Matt stretching, nothing more. Standing in the middle of the sitting room, he had both hands laced behind him as he bent backwards in a quite impressive display of balance and flexibility. Sherlock seemed to be watching the very same thing from his current spot on the couch. Matt bent even further, the back of his head angling towards the floor, baring his neck... and it struck John how very suggestive the scene was...   
  
And just like that, Sherlock was leaping from the cushions and stepping over the coffee table to grab Matt by one arm and shove him against the nearest wall, next to the windows. They were frantic, mouths fused, hands wandering. Bending down to nuzzle at Matt’s collarbone, Sherlock tugged on the glittery trousers until they dropped around his thighs. Matt pushed the back of his head against the wall and held Sherlock by the hair, forcing him down until the detective was on his knees in front of him. They weren’t much more than shadows outlined by the street lamps shining through the windows in the darkened room, but there was no need for more illumination for John to tell exactly what Sherlock was doing.  
  
It went on for a good few minutes and then Sherlock was on his feet again, silencing Matt’s low protests with another series of kisses, hands on his slim hips. John could see them travelling upwards and underneath his shirt, arms sliding around the singer, their bodies pulled flush against each other. John peered a little further from around the door... Sherlock had splayed a hand on Matt’s lower back. It reached lower. Suddenly Matt arched his back sharply, gasping desperately.  
  
In his state of shock, John could still hear soft murmurs, Sherlock’s in Matt’s ear, and despite being too far away to to make out any words, he  _felt_  the man’s swollen, moist lips brushing the guitarist’s ear as if it were his own. The pair were swaying slightly on the spot and so was he, his spine tingling when the diminutive Muse front man whined again. Sherlock tightened the hold around his waist and straightened him up against the wall when his knees seemingly buckled, Matt’s head  tipped back, mouth hanging open. From the angle, John pictured their eyes locked together; he could easily imagine Matt’s pupils blown wide with lust and a sting of arousal hit him as he imagined Sherlock’s just the same.  
  
And at that exact moment, the detective turned and looked straight at the man spying from the kitchen.  
  
  
  
Sitting up in bed with a jolt, John watched as the dream dissipated before his eyes, realising he’d never left his bedroom. He took several deep breaths, feeling as though he’d just had another nightmare about Afghanistan. No, this was worse.  
  
Having nightmares about something as traumatic as war was reasonable; that he felt he’d had a nightmare of comparable impact about a certain consulting detective getting it on with one of his clients was a calamity. He flopped back down on the bed and kicked the sheets off, sweating and angry with himself. It was then he noticed that his boxers were tenting. He’d gotten an erection from dreaming about Sherlock and Matt together.  
  
 “Shit.”  


***

  
  
  
  
The rich sound of a violin expertly played had been resonating around the flat for awhile when John finally went downstairs the following morning. He nearly collided with Matt, who was leaning against the door frame listening, coat and scarf on as if he was ready to leave. John could barely look the singer in the eye, such was his embarrassment over the previous night’s events, but the other man smiled and greeted him with a friendly ‘good morning’.  
  
“I’ll be going, then,” Matt signalled through the door to Sherlock, who had stopped playing the moment John arrived. “Be right back.”  
  
John watched him leave and then turned to Sherlock, who was scratching the back of his head with an intent expression, his fingers disappearing in his unruly hair. The morning concerto appeared over; it was clear he’d had a particular audience in mind - one that did not include John.  
  
They'd obviously been awake the whole night. Unlike Dom, who was on the couch in the same position he’d been when John had gone upstairs, his sleep not at all disrupted by the violin.  
  
“He’s only gone to the hotel to pick up his phone charger,” Sherlock answered the question John was about to ask. “He’s taking a cab.”      
  
Leaving the detective muttering to himself about how the list of names provided by Tom Kirk was missing something, the doctor went to the kitchen to put the kettle on without a word. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes and he rubbed his right leg, wincing. It hardly mattered if it was psychosomatic or not, it still bloody hurt. Sherlock had followed him and closed the sliding glass doors, but instead of going to check on one of his many experiments, he sat at the table.   
  
And started at John.  
  
“What?” John finally snapped, turning to his flatmate after an agonisingly long minute of silence.  
  
“You’re angry with me.”  
  
His heart skipped a beat as he processed the words. But John didn’t want to talk about it. There was no rational reason to be upset, and he knew that any discussion with Sherlock on the subject would only turn into a deeply uncomfortable argument. And one that he would lose, at that.  
  
“Do you want tea?” John said instead, his voice tight under the detective's scrutiny. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, what’s gotten into you? And I’m not angry!” He realised he was almost shouting. “Sorry. I... I’m not angry with you, I don’t know how you got that impression.” He could picture the look of disbelief on Sherlock’s face without looking. “You’ve been odd lately. That’s all.”  
  
“Odd,” Sherlock repeated after a long pause. “That I’m  _odd_ , as you put it, never seemed to be a problem for you before.”  
  
“It’s not a problem, I’m just surprised. I don’t know what makes you think it’s a good idea to even...” He was giving in, he was doing exactly what he didn’t want to do. John didn’t know if Sherlock was doing it on purpose and attempting to bring forth some sort of admission, or if he was simply clueless. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Sherlock. Just forget about it.”  
  
“A good idea to...?”  
  
“Christ!” John placed his palms on the table, looking down. “Matt, Sherlock! I’m talking about Matt! This... this infatuation you have with him! I’m not blind! And you know me, you know I’d be the first to tell you to go after someone, to find someone... but he’s... he’s not the person for you. He’s exceptionally nice, he’s polite, he’s a bloody genius in his own right, but you said it yourself the moment we met him - he already has people in his life. He’s got a girlfriend, he’s going to be a father. And then there’s that man asleep on the couch,” he lowered his voice, pointing at the kitchen doors, “and for the life of me I cannot understand their relationship, but it’s not something conventional and he’s never going to replace him with someone else.”  
  
“Well, thank you, John. For looking after my interests.” Glancing aside, Sherlock appeared somewhat perplexed but was clearly trying to remain patient, hands crossed placidly in his lap. “But -“  
  
“There are so many people out there who could give you... who could...” John turned away, feeling his face flushing. God, what was he saying? What was he  _doing_ ? Sherlock was going to get the wrong impression if this continued. Most likely he already had. John was starting to sound like a jealous, lover, which he most definitely was  _not_  and never would be. “All the time I’ve known you, I’ve never once seen you interested in another human being and it’s frustrating to... to see you wasting your energy on the wrong person. That’s all. Happy now?”  
  
There was a long silence after that, ended by Sherlock’s low, deep voice. “John.” The doctor turned back to look; Sherlock was gazing at the floor as if lost in thought. “Your opinion means more to me than anyone else’s. I thought you knew that.” It was John’s turn for stunned silence. “I promise you that whatever you’re worried about - you don’t need to be.” The kettle whistled and Sherlock rose to prepare the tea. He handed a cup to John, made exactly the way he liked it. “I need to get back to the case. Is that all right with you?”  
  
John felt suddenly pathetic and incredibly immature and he swallowed, but the lump in his throat stayed and he couldn’t find the voice to reply. So he simply nodded jerkily and watched as Sherlock returned to the living room.  
  


***

  
Matt grabbed his phone charger and stuffed it in one of his coat pockets, ready to take the waiting cab back to Baker Street. It was only a fifteen, twenty minute walk at most, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him go alone unless he took a taxi, so he'd agreed.  
  
Sherlock Holmes.  
  
What a character. Now he better understood why John Watson was willing to put up with him. If someone had told the singer two days before that he’d spend a whole night at the man’s flat working on the case, sipping red wine and discussing Romantic composers of the late 19 th and early 20 th century, he’d have thought they’d gone bonkers. For someone Matt had at first believed in love with the sound of his own voice, Sherlock turned out to be a remarkable listener. They'd had such an interesting and in depth discussion about music, Matt had to admit it had been ages since he’d talked to someone so knowledgeable who wasn’t trying to show off. Or kiss his arse.  
  
Not to mention he was an amazing violin player. When Sherlock had finally picked the instrument up and played by choice and not due to Matt’s pestering, the Muse front man had just stood in silent appreciation, soaking in the music. He didn’t think the man who made a living as a detective would be out of place as a first chair violinist with the London Symphony Orchestra. The other guys would think it mad, but Matt also couldn’t help wondering if Sherlock would be keen to play as a guest on a track for the next album. There was bound to be one that required a string section. Frankly, Matt was rather flattered that Sherlock liked Muse, considering some of his previous experiences with snotty classical musicians.  
  
Whatever Dom believed he’d seen when they first met, though, he’d been wrong, as not once had Sherlock tried to get personal if it didn't relate to the case, which Matt found refreshing. Although Sherlock probably didn’t ask because he already knew everything there was to know about him, having deduced it...  
  
For a few hours he’d almost forgotten about the stalker, or at least that it was  _him_  being harassed. Matt could certainly use some detachment to help keep the nervousness at bay, especially if he had to call his girlfriend’s parents later that day, as he had decided to do if the stalker wasn’t caught in the mean time. They’d be worried sick, but there was no one better way to arrange for Kate and the baby’s safety, while covering for Matt and keeping her blissfully unaware that there was anything amiss. And that was the only thing that mattered.  
  
As he waited for the lift to take him down to the lobby, his iPhone buzzed in his pocket with an incoming text. It was Tom.  
  
 _Found something, where are you? DON’T TELL ANYONE – VERY IMPORTANT_  
  
Matt furrowed his brow and immediately called him, choosing to take the stairs so he wouldn’t lose the signal. Tom rejected the call, so he quickly texted him instead.  
  
 _Leaving the hotel and back to baker st. whats up, its about the stalker?_  
  
When the answer came Matt had already crossed the lobby and was sliding into the black cab which had been waiting for him  
  
 _You alone? Meet me at 6 Syon Manor Rd, Brentford. TELL NO ONE, I want you to see it first._  
  
That was in Hounslow, way outside Central London. Matt's heart beat faster. What had he discovered that was so urgent and couldn't be shared? He tried ringing him again, but Tom rejected the call once more. For fuck’s sake, what was Kirk playing at? Sherlock had warned him not to veer from his path, but Matt couldn’t very well ignore Tom, could he? Matt rubbed his eyes in frustration before leaning forward to speak to the driver.  
  
“Sorry, but there's been a change of plan. I need to go to Brentford instead.”  
  
Settling back after giving the address to the cabbie, Matt drummed his fingers agitatedly on his thigh, clutching his iPhone tightly in his other hand. This was so odd. But Tom wouldn’t act like this unless he had a very good reason. Unless... what if he'd been taken...? A chill swept down his spine. No, it couldn’t be, they’d been in contact just the night before to confirm the names, as Sherlock kept insisting the list was incomplete. Maybe whatever he'd discovered had something to do with that? Or maybe it was to do with the detective himself - and that was why he wanted to speak with Matt alone first?  
  
Feeling uneasy at all the possibilities, he opted for going to the address Tom had given him and making a decision upon arrival on what his next course of action would be. The second he found something dodgy, he’d call Dom.  


***

  
When John returned to the sitting room, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but Dom was just coming out of the bathroom, stretching and yawning. The motion revealed his stomach and the belt on his jeans that had been covered by his t-shirt. A leopard print belt. Impossible to understand what in God’s name could make a grown man buy a leopard print belt. Or lever his way into a pair of ridiculously tight trousers. Rock stars, eh?  
  
“Oh, hey, morning,” the blond greeted him with a smile entirely too cheerful for the time of morning. “Where’s everyone?”  
  
“Sherlock's around. Matt went to the hotel to pick up his phone charger, he should be back any moment. Don’t worry, he took a cab. You want some tea?” John figured it was only polite.  
  
“That would be lovely, thank you. Did they find anything?”  
  
They sat at the table near the sitting room windows with their tea, talking idly about the case until Dom fell silent, gazing outside, most likely looking for Matt’s return.  
  
“How long have you two known each other?” John asked, curious.  
  
Dom released a small laugh. “God, it must be pushing twenty years now? We were 12 or 13, met at school. Feels like my whole life, really. I don’t remember much before then, anyway, just random childhood memories from Stockport, where I was born.”  
  
“Must be nice to work with someone you’ve known for so long.” The only person John knew from such an early age with whom he still maintained contact was his sister. “Though you probably get tired of each other once in awhile.”  
  
“Sometimes, yeah. We do spend a ridiculous amount of time together.” Dom looked down at the mug clutched between his hands. “But we don’t really fight, we’re lucky like that. There’s bands who make a record, do a few tour dates and then piss off separately till the next one because they can’t stand each other. We’re not like that. Cheesy thing to say, but we're like a big family when we're on tour. Sometimes it feels like we haven’t been home properly since we released the first album. That was 1999.”  
  
“That's a long time.”  
  
Dom nodded, thoughtful. “Chris, our bassist, he started a family early, he’s got five kids -“  
  
“Five?!” John nearly choked on his tea.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Dom chuckled. “Never been a problem,. But there were times when he was there but, you know, not really there? Know what I mean?”  
  
John understood. “It was only you and Matt sometimes.” Dom’s silence was confirmation enough. “You never thought of starting a family of your own?”  
  
“I like this freedom. Things don’t work so well when I’m in a relationship.” Dom smiled wickedly. “Not bothered, maybe it’ll change one day. Matt’s the opposite, he likes being attached. Calms him down, too. He’s a hyperactive wee fucker, needs a steadying influence.”  
  
“And you don’t worry it might change things in the band if he gets married one day? His girlfriend is pregnant, isn’t she?” John regretted the question the moment it was out, worried he was prying. But the drummer was grinning.  
  
“Nah, there’s some things that will never change.” And he sat back, observing bemusedly as Sherlock entered the room in a frenzy with an open newspaper in front of his face.   
  
It amazed John how utterly confident Dom was in his relationship with his friend, in his life. The drummer didn’t seem to feel the least bit threatened by Sherlock’s attention towards Matt, if anything he was overprotective. He wondered if perhaps that was what  _he_  felt in regards to Sherlock - and not silly jealousy as he'd feared. It would certainly make him feel more comfortable with himself.  
  
“How about you?” Dom asked.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“Don’t have a girlfriend?”  
  
John sighed. “Not so easy when you do what we do. If I tell you that on my first date with this woman we were both kidnapped...” Dom laughed good naturedly, but John felt a bit of a loser. “I guess it also doesn’t help in finding someone when,” he lowered his voice, “you have a, well, a flatmate like -“  
  
“- like him.” Dom finished with a sympathetic smile. “Doesn’t seem the type that’s willing to share, does he? Reckon at least you’re never bored!”  
  
 _Share_ ? John was baffled. What sort of relationship did Dominic think he and Sherlock had? He supposed that for a man with an unconventional lifestyle, unconventional relationships, it was only natural to assume others acted the same.  
  
The drummer had gotten up to peruse the wall where all the case notes and pictures were pinned when Sherlock suddenly stepped over the coffee table as he lunged for the desk, rattling items about on the wooden surface as he frantically searched for something.  
  
“What? What is it?” John finally asked when the detective then ran to the pile of newspapers from the previous week.  
  
Sherlock pulled one of the papers out and opened it. “Stupid. I’ve been so stupid, John. Too slow!” He shoved it against John’s chest, open at the page with the article about the body found in the Thames that John remembered from few days ago. “Drowned!” John gave him an inquisitive look and he huffed exasperatedly. “There was one just like this four months ago, another last year, a third two years ago. All in London, all found with alcohol in the bloodstream, all proclaimed accidental deaths.” He turned to Dom, arm outstretched dramatically. “Call Matthew. Call Matthew  _now_ , see where he is. If he’s not on his way here, we’re picking him up wherever he is, we can’t risk it.”  
  
“Why, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Do it now! He’s going to attack again soon!”  
  
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John demanded, blanching with worry.  
  
Sherlock was pacing with a fervent glint in his eye, all excitement and adrenalin. “We’ve been following the wrong path, I should’ve seen it sooner!” The apparent irritation he felt at his error still wasn’t enough to keep a slightly manic smile off his face.  
  
“What are you saying?” Dom said slowly, hands on his hips.  
  
“The man we 'e chasing isn’t a stalker -”  
  
“Oh, God.” John covered his eyes with one hand.  
  
“- he's a serial killer.”   
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my ever faithful beta deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions LOL

 

**   
**

Sherlock was pacing the living room with his hands steepled under his nose in the ‘praying-to the-god-that-is-my-brain’ position he favoured. A serial killer falling right into his lap? He could have hardly asked for more after the initial request for assistance seemed to indicate that this would be a painfully uninteresting case.

 

“The police didn’t do their research, failed to make the connection,” he began abruptly. “The deaths are all linked; these people were persecuted and murdered by the same man. I don’t know how he does it. Obviously they were all drowned, but  _how_? How does he do it without ever raising suspicion? There were never any witnesses to claim that they fell, or were pushed in the Thames and there were no injuries to suggest they were forced underwater... but all the victims had alcohol in the bloodstream so he must have baited them somehow and...” The detective’s pacing came to a halt. “ _Oh_! He gets them drunk, drowns them in privacy, maybe in some sort of tank, and dumps the bodies in the river afterwards. Possibly -“

  
“Stop, just stop!” Dom was white as a sheet. “You’re saying... you’re saying that the man stalking Matt has  _killed_  people? Multiple people? That he’s going to do it again... to Matt?!”

  


Faced with the drummer’s anguished expression, Sherlock sobered quickly. It would be Matthew Bellamy suffering the same fate if the murderer wasn’t found at once. The detective bent over the table, bracing his hands and dropping his head, staring down gravely. “Are you calling Matthew?”

  


“Yes. Yes!” Dom rushed to the couch where he’d left his phone, hands shaking as he dialled. “He’s not answering,” he reported after a few seconds. “Come on... shit, come on, Matt, don’t do this to me...”

  
“He’s been captured.” Sherlock spun around, digging one hand into his hair and ruffling the curls frantically as Dom re-dialled. “He’s been captured, but he’s still alive. He will be for five to six hours at most, the first four victims all were after their disappearances, which gives us -”

 

“Sherlock, are you sure?” John spoke quietly, sparing a quick glance at the drummer, who still had his mobile attached to his ear but appeared as if he’d just seen a ghost. His flatmate replied with a simple but effective eye roll.

  
“No, just... what the fuck are you saying...” Flopping down on the couch, Dom let his head hang low. ”Come on, Matt, answer the bloody phone, you can’t do this to me...”

  


Grabbing his scarf and coat, Sherlock spoke as he put them on. “John, I need you to take Dominic and go to the Connaught. We need to retrace Matthew’s steps. Find out if he managed to get there and if so, when he left. It’s highly unlikely he was abducted from there, even the atrocious hotel security would have made an effort not to let a guest who’d been assaulted previously be kidnapped from their own lobby. He must have been lured away somehow.”

 

John recalled one of Sherlock’s very first deductions - that the stalker had known Matt from a young age. The thought left an unpleasant feeling in his gut. “Where are you going?”

  
“Scotland Yard. I need Lestrade to give me access to the case files for these deaths, they must have opened an inquiry for each. I need to solve these murders.”

  
“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Dom rose from the couch, livid. “You’re saying there’s a serial killer who’s got Matt and you’re going to investigate dead people instead of trying to find him?”

 

Sherlock leaned menacingly towards Dom, their noses almost touching. “If I find who killed them, I find who has Matthew. Now do what I tell you and don’t waste my precious time!” And he stormed out of the flat.

 

“This is a fucking nightmare...” Dom covered his face with his hands, the words coming out muffled. “Please tell me he’s wrong.”

 

“Come on, we have to go.” John patted the blond’s shoulder sympathetically. “We need your help, too, Dominic.”

 

There was no reply from the other man as he rubbed at his eyes, clearly distraught. They were bloodshot when he finally faced John. “We should go to the police. How does he plan on solving this by himself in a couple of hours?”

 

“If anyone can, it’s Sherlock. He’ll find Matt.” The doctor tried to be as reassuring as possible. “And Scotland Yard will be involved, too, you heard him.”

  
“He said there’s only a few hours left!”

  
“I’ve seen him do this more times than you can imagine. And he always works better under pressure.”

He decided to keep to himself how he’d never seen his partner working a case in which he had even the remotest connection to the victim before, and that John had no idea how the detective might be influenced by it.

 

***

 

Matt’s cab stopped just outside number 6, Syon Manor Road in the suburb of Hounslow. From the singer’s perspective, it seemed an ordinary house in an ordinary neighbourhood, comfortably middle class. The front yard seemed well-maintained, everything clean and neat, two cars parked in front of the garage. As he didn’t know how long this would take, he paid the cabbie and asked him to wait, but leave if he didn’t return in five minutes. Sherlock’s belief that the man was a teacher and appeared a perfectly average citizen from the outside briefly crossed Matt’s mind... No, he’d have to be mad to send Matt to his own house. He’d recalled on the way that the woman Tom was dating was from Hounslow, so that gave him some comfort.

The singer walked towards the front door and knocked, taking a deep breath and shifting on his feet in the cold as he waited. A middle-aged lady’s face peered around the edge of the door when it was opened slightly in answer. Wearing glasses and a polite smile, her gaze wandered up and down, left and right without meeting Matt’s.

 

“Hello. May I help you?”

  
“Good morning. Yes, I... my name is Matt. Matt Bellamy. I, uh, came to meet my friend Tom Kirk. This is the right place, isn’t it?”

 

Perfectly ordered shoulder length brown hair, nice if extremely conservative clothes... this couldn’t possibly be the woman Tom was shagging. Well, unless his tastes had  _drastically_  changed. In fact, she was probably old enough to be their mother. “Indeed, it is, you came to the right place. He’s been waiting for you, Mr. Bellamy.” Head hung low in a humble, almost subservient manner, she opened the door and stepped aside. “Please, do come in.”

 

Matt hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the waiting cab. His gut instinct was telling him to leave; if something went wrong, he had no one to come to his aid and nothing to defend himself  with, the weight of the iPhone in his jacket pocket of little comfort. Tom had asked him to come, though...

 

He followed the woman inside.

 

The house was so stuffed with dark, old-fashioned furniture, china figurines, rugs, paintings and assorted pointless, occasionally downright  _ugly_ , ornamentation that, for a fleeting moment, Matt felt like he’d just stepped into his grandmother’s house back in Teignmouth. The impression didn’t last, though, evaporating completely when his eyes fell on a collection of porcelain dolls. Their dead, staring eyes creeped him the hell out.

 

“My husband will be here momentarily. May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  
“Your husband..?” Matt asked absentmindedly as they entered the sitting room, his attention arrested by a stuffed deer head on the wall.

 

A hunting trophy. Fragments of conversation with Sherlock and John over the past few days flashed through Matt’s brain. Tom was nowhere to be seen.

 

A male voice from the doorway turned the blood to ice in his veins.

 

“Good morning, Matthew. I’ve been expecting you.”

 

Matt turned slowly. There was a man in his early 60s standing there. Round, clean-shaven face, framed by short, white hair; he wore brown corduroy trousers and a buttoned shirt under a pale yellow cardigan. He had fluffy slippers on his feet and looked like a TV grandpa. He freaked the living daylights out of Matt.

 

“This is my wife, Mary Alice.” The lady fidgeted, a tight smile passing swiftly over her face, her eyes glued demurely to the floor. “And my name is Mark Smith. We’ve met before, Matthew, but I trust you may not remember. Understandable. It’s been a good while since you stepped in a classroom for a history lesson, hasn’t it?”

  
Pulse quickening at man’s words, memories fluttered to the surface of Matt’s mind, triggered by the man’s name and supported by many of the things he’d talked about with Sherlock the night before. Classrooms, history lessons, teachers... Mr. Smith. Hadn’t he taught Tom’s class...? And he filled in for Mrs. Blackwood, one of Matt’s teachers, who was frequently not present due to her poor health. She had passed away over a decade ago, as they had discovered during their research.

  
“Oh, I see it’s starting to come back to you. How flattering. You see, I don’t expect my students to remember me. But I never forget a student’s name, or face. I remember every single one of them. Even those who I taught only a few times when filling in for a colleague.” He smiled. “But before we continue our conversation, as we have so much to talk about, Matthew, I will kindly request that you remove your shoes. Mary Alice takes great pains to ensure the house is kept in pristine condition, and rightly so. She will also bring you a cup of tea at once.” At that, the woman left the room without a word.

  
“Where’s Tom?” Matt croaked.

  
“Dear Mr. Thomas Kirk, I presume? Home, where I left him after our brief meeting late last night. He hasn’t changed a thing after all these years, has he?” A trace of a smile lingered on his lips. “There’s no reason for you to be concerned, he only suffered a slight concussion when I went to borrow his phone. I could have asked nicely, of course, but I had the feeling he wouldn’t oblige me without putting up a fight, loyal to you as he is. Now, Matthew,” and the authoritative tone he employed, combined with the undertone of inherent condescension, made him feel like he was back in the classroom, an ordinary boy at the back of the room, struggling to pass a test so his grandmother wouldn’t ground him. “Enough chit chat. The shoes, if you please.”

 

He was so fucked. Why hadn’t he follow Sherlock’s advice? Why hadn’t he at least told Dom where he was going? And was Tom okay? He crouched down to remove one black boot and then the other, taking his time, brain churning as he tried to think of a way to get himself out of this mess. He could try to dash past him and make a break for the door. It didn’t seem like either him or his wife were armed. Maybe he could escape if he disabled the man? He was bigger than Matt but he couldn’t be more agile. Perhaps running for the nearest window would be best…

 

His mobile started in his pocket with Dom’s ringtone. Did they know? Or were they only wondering now why he was taking so long to return to Baker Street?

 

“Ah, your phone, of course.” Smith reached out his hand, palm turned up, a wedding ring barely visible on a chubby finger. “I’ll look after that for you.”

 

Matt didn’t think, he simply acted: he flung the mobile at Smith, hard. It hit him square in the face, making him stumble, and it was enough to leave the criminal momentarily distracted. Running towards him, Matt shoved the former teacher against the doorframe, Smith struggling to keep his feet, and sprinted blindly for the front door, skidding on his sock-clad feet on the highly waxed floorboards. He made it, but realised in a panic that it was locked and the key was nowhere to be found. And in the split second he stopped to think of what to do, a sharp pain flared in his shoulder. Hand flying to the spot, he discovered a dart buried in his flesh. He yanked it out, but it was plain what was going to happen. Dizziness arrived, his vision blurring and his limbs ceasing to function. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, incapacitated.

 

The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness were the faces of his two abductors hovering above him.

 

“Just as I told you, Mary Alice. This one has been a trial from the start.”

 

***

 

Sherlock barged into Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office and dropped the newspaper with the news of the body found in the Thames from a few days before on his desk. That the silver-haired man was already in a meeting with three other people was of little importance.

 

“I need you to get me everything you have on this man and these,” he added several copies of older newspaper articles on top of it. “Now.”

 

There were displeased murmurs all around as Lestrade went from confused to angry in a fraction of a second. “Sherlock, are you barking mad? What do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a meeting?”

 

“Not my problem right now. I need everything you’ve got about these deaths, there isn’t a second to waste!”

 

Taken aback with the seriousness of the other man’s voice, the DI crossed his arms obstinately in front of his chest. “And why would I do that? I’m busy!”

 

“Because there is a serial killer on the loose that Scotland Yard has neglected to notice and he has already captured his latest victim. And if this man dies, your career will be  _ruined_ , because he’s a celebrity. However, I guarantee you that even if he weren’t, I would personally see to it that you never work in law enforcement. Ever. Again.”

  
“Woah, woah, woah! A serial killer?” Lestrade stood and dismissed the other officers, who left amidst hushed grumblings. “What is this about? Who are you working with? Dimmock?”

  
“I stumbled upon it, he’s a private client and I’ve just discovered the connection to the other deaths. We are wasting time, Lestrade!”

  
“Alright, I’m going, I’m going! Give me the names.” He sat down and pulled the newspaper and copies towards him. “Who’s your client? He’s the one who’s missing?”

  
“Missing for about an hour. His name is Matthew James Bellamy, 32, and he’s the frontman of a band called Muse. We have no more than five hours to find him before he’s dead; the other victims were murdered within five to six hours of their disappearance. Bellamy was attacked the night before last by an accomplice who escaped and was then found dead yesterday morning. I know  _how_  he kills them, but I need to find the connection between them. The priority is to check their high school teachers, there has to be a name in common.” He still couldn’t understand how they hadn’t found the killer when going over Matt’s teachers; the answer should have been there. 

 

 “I’ll get Donovan to help you.” Lestrade gave him a look that spoke of the gravity of the situation. “Isn’t John with you?”

 

“He’s at the hotel Bellamy was staying at as we speak, collecting data.” He dropped to a chair in front of Lestrade’s desk, clutching his head in his hands for a moment. The uncharacteristically stressed behaviour didn’t go unnoticed by the DI.

  
“What is he to you?"

 

"What?"

 

"Your client, this Bellamy guy." The name of his band was vaguely familiar to Lestrade and he wanted to ask Sherlock if he was a friend, no matter how odd the notion of Sherlock having a friend was. A friend other than John, that was. Curious as he was about their connection, the hateful look he was getting didn't encourage him to repeat the question. "Alright! Will you calm down?” He turned his computer screen and keyboard towards the detective. “You can work here in my office, it’s all yours. I’ll get you the case files. But I want to be informed of everything that happens, understood?”

 

***

 

Dom and John were watching the footage from the surveillance cameras of the Connaught Hotel, looking for evidence of Matt’s arrival and departure. They’d had no problem getting access to it once they’d asked to speak to the hotel manager, who, judging by his embarrassed expression when he saw Dom, well remembered the incident in Matt’s suite two days before.

 

“So he came and left alone by cab... nothing seems out of the ordinary...” John summarised, Dom agitatedly wringing his hands with glazed eyes beside him. “He had his mobile in his hand, looks like he was texting someone or waiting for someone to call.” John shook his head, at a loss.

 

The drummer knew that Matt rarely switched the iPhone off. Dropping back in his seat, he rang Matt again only to once more reach his voicemail. “He’s... Matt’s always on the phone, you’ve seen what he’s like...” Dom said, voice dazed.

 

John recalled Sherlock’s earlier words. “But someone could have called him, threatened him or baited him somehow. He wasn’t kidnapped in front of our flat because at that hour Mrs. Hudson would have seen it...” They had asked their landlady on their way out if she’d noticed anything out of the ordinary. “I don’t think he ever tried to return, he went somewhere else from the hotel.”

 

Dom’s phone rang. “Don’t recognise the number.” He glanced at John, who nodded at him to answer the call. “Hello? Oh, hey, Tom, it’s you... Listen, I should’ve called you before...” But he paused, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Matt’s... God, he’s missing, Tom. He went missing about two hours ago...” He was quiet for a long time, listening, and then sprung out of his seat, pained voice gone high-pitched with new worry. “Jesus, are you hurt? Did he hurt you? Did you  _see_  the fucking cunt?” Dom was staring at John now. “Listen, I’m with John Watson, we’re at the hotel, we’re coming straight to you now... I’ll tell you everything as soon as we get there, alright?” He paused again. “No, it’s not your fucking fault, you idiot. I don’t know, I hope to God he’s okay. We’re coming to you now.”

 

“What happened?” John asked anxiously when the call ended.

 

“Someone showed up at Tom’s house late last night, he was in bed. He went to the door and someone whacked him on the head when he opened it. When he woke up, he was tied up and couldn’t free himself. He was lucky his girlfriend was stopping by this morning. They thought he’d been robbed ‘cos his phone was missing, but then Tom realised nothing  _else_  was.”

 

John recalled his and Sherlock’s visit to the media manager’s house and instantly understood his concern – Tom’s photography equipment was worth a small fortune and would be of irresistible appeal to any regular burglar. “Someone used his phone to lure Matt somewhere,” John concluded, jaw tight. “We have to tell Sherlock.”

 

***

 

Matt found himself sprawled on an uncomfortable surface when he regained consciousness.

 

He felt extremely drowsy and his neck and right shoulder were aching. It was difficult to breathe. He opened his eyes and, through what seemed like a glass pane, took in his surroundings. It was probably the house’s basement, judging by the lack of windows, unfinished walls and scattered gardening equipment. Smith was there, sat comfortably in a chair, glasses on the tip of his nose, reading a newspaper which he folded immediately once he noticed Matt was awake.

 

“Ah, yes. You’re awake. Sooner than I expected, too. Good, good. I use that tranquiliser for deerstalking, I wasn’t completely sure of the effect it would have on you considering your body weight. I wasn’t expecting to need it, to be perfectly honest.” He removed his glasses as he stood and walked closer to the singer. “I believe you may experience a brief period of disorientation. Nothing serious.”

 

The man’s voice seemed to reach him from far away, though he was right in front of him, and Matt felt as though he was trapped in some sort of mushroom-induced hallucination. Sitting up with effort, he began feeling out his surroundings. Was it glass all over? He could sit and stretch his legs but that was about it. He was locked inside a fucking transparent box!

 

“Before you ask, you are inside a fish tank, Matthew. It was custom made to fit in the cavity in that wall. Don’t bother attempting to break it because this acrylic glass,” and he tapped the surface with a finger, “is bulletproof. You also won’t be able to tip it over because there are metal bars here and here,” he pointed to the top and bottom of the cavity, “to prevent such a thing and to keep it in place.” Matt gaped as the man spoke, his heart already beating wildly in his chest. “So now that you know there is no escape and it’s useless to attempt it, you will be entirely focused on me and we will be able to converse properly. If you accept my terms, you may leave unscathed as early as tonight. If you don’t, Matthew, you will also leave tonight, but you will not be alive to know it.”

  
“You fucking nutcase, let me out right now!” Matt banged his fists with as much strength as he could muster against the glass but it was as hard as described and he knew he would only hurt himself further by continuing.

 

“The circular opening in the lid where you can see a tube attached,” he paused as Matt’s head swerved around to see what he was referring to, “is what is providing you with oxygen. It will also serve as a channel for water to flow inside and fill the tank in case our conversation results in an unacceptable outcome. Naturally, you will drown.”  

 

“Let me out of here now!” Matt bellowed. “There’re people who know where I am and they’ll be on to you! I told Dom!” The weird acoustics of the box were making his head throb when he talked, as if it would implode if he uttered one more word.

  
“No, you didn’t, Matthew. I’m not a high-tech individual, but even I can check your phone’s text message and phone call records.” There was a small smirk lurking at the corner of his lips. “As expected, you told no one. Which was my intention when I borrowed Mr. Kirk’s phone. Anyway, what I want to know, Matthew, is how -“ Smith stopped at the sound of his wife arriving, carrying a broom. Without looking at Matt, she placed it in a corner. “Mary Alice, I told you at lunch that I was not to be disturbed when with our guest, did I not?”

  


She clasped and unclasped her fingers in obvious distress. “Yes, I’m so sorry, I do apologise.”

 

He breathed out, lips pursed, clearly upset. “Tea is to be served at the usual time. I will be done with our guest by then, so you shall not need to call me, as I will be upstairs. Go now. Matthew and I are busy.”

 

Matt closed his eyes and let his head drop so it rested against one side of the tank. This was so utterly fucked up, he didn’t even know where to start.

 

“Now. As I was saying,” Smith brought the chair closer and sat down, crossing his legs, ankle resting on the opposite knee. “What I want to know is this: who did you steal the music from?”

  
Matt watched Smith through half-lidded eyes, bewildered. “What..?”

  
“The music you have released as your own and that has brought you so much success. Made you wealthy, allowed you to move out of Devon and travel the world, win awards and engage in relationships with Hollywood actresses.”

  
“What the hell are you talking about?” He let out a small, despairing laugh.

 

“Do not pretend not to know what I am talking about. I taught you at school, Matthew. There is not a talented bone in that body. You were one of the dimmest students not just in your class, but in your entire year. Average to mediocre in every possible way. From a broken family, socially inept, incapable of conforming. Fated to a life of failure and petty lawbreaking.”

 

Matt knew what Smith meant. The year he taught him was the year his parents divorced. The year he moved to his grandmother’s, the year he picked up the guitar and had an uncontrollable urge to just play and play, when he’d begun to dream of being part of a band and nothing else mattered. Everything was fucked up, difficult; he’d been riddled with predictable teenage angst and disillusioned with everything. None of it made sense, there was no point to any of it. That was also the year he met Dom.

 

“You can imagine my surprise when I recently found one of Mary Alice's silly magazines on the couch and  _your_  name was part of a headline on the cover,” he scoffed. “So tell me, Matthew – who did you steal from? Tell me the truth and I may let you live past my afternoon tea.”

 

  



	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my ever faithful beta deadstarbug who even shares my obsessions and always provides many LOLZ!
> 
> And thank you xavje for giving me the motivation to keep going and to finish this! :-)
> 
> This is the last chapter, I hope you've enjoyed the story :-) Sherlock is bloody difficult to write! How did I get myself into this??

 

**  
**

 

“Feeling better?”

 

John examined Tom Kirk’s temple, pushing aside the ice pack Muse’s media manager had been pressing against it. He’d arrived at his flat together with Dom to find the long-time friend of the band in a state of despair that nearly matched the drummer’s, his girlfriend tending to his head injury.

 

Sherlock had yet to say a word since John had informed him of the progress they’d made, and the doctor was considering going to meet him at Scotland Yard, as there was little else he could do at Tom’s. Dom was on the phone to Muse’s bassist, Chris, and the drummer was the very picture of worry, his face taut as he explained the latest developments to his band mate, standing stiffly near the couch and staring at the door as if he could make Matt walk through it by sheer force of will.

 

“I should probably go and meet Sherlock at Scotland Yard, he may need me,” John said when the drummer hung up.

 

“Can I go with you?” Dom asked.

 

“Ah, no need to. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything, I promise.” Definitely not a good idea to goad Sherlock’s unpredictable temper by showing up with an anxious Dominic in tow. “Try to stay calm, everything will be all right.”

 

***

 

It took Sherlock two hours and twenty six minutes to identify the serial killer and to obtain his current address. He’d roundly cursed Matt’s naivety when John had called him with more data; the idiot had been so easily tricked by a leading text message from Kirk’s stolen phone and had walked straight into the criminal’s clutches.

 

Breezing across the busy lobby of Scotland Yard, he was almost yanked off his feet when a hand clamped around his wrist. 

 

“Sherlock!” John’s voice. “Where are you going?”

 

There was no immediate reply as Sherlock commandeered the first available cab, nearly shouting the Brentford address at the driver. Once they were on their way, he explained the situation to John.

 

Matt Bellamy, George Rufus and the other four victims were all former students of the same man, albeit from different schools across England and Wales. When Sherlock cross-checked the names of their teachers, he found they all had in common one Mr. Mark Smith, subject taught: history. Despite never officially having taught Matt – and hence the reason there had been no record of his name in the files they’d gone over the night before – he was the obvious link between the other victims and it was easy to make the connection to Matt as a consequence, having examined the staff list of his Teignmouth high school.

 

With the exception of the successful musician, the victims all shared the fact that they had excelled at school; two had graduated from university with honours. But despite a promising start, they had never fulfilled the potential they’d shown during their educations and had gone on to lead very uninspiring lives, all facing financial difficulties and two, George Rufus included, opting to dabble in crime as a solution to their problems.

 

“These students for whom he had tremendous expectations, students that he’d followed throughout their lives, possibly without ever having contact with them, failed him,” Sherlock extolled, “and he punished them for it.”

 

“Why would anyone do that?” John shook his head, at a loss. “What a psychopath!”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t say he’s a psychopath, John, as he lacks several of the characteristics required to be considered one. Psychopathy is generally defined by -”

 

“Yes, Sherlock, never mind, it was just an expression.” He turned in his seat to look at his flatmate. “So why did he go after Matt?” The Muse singer was a clear exception: he didn’t fit the profile and, judging by the content of the letters sent to threaten him, his musical talent at school hadn’t been what made him stand out to Smith. “As far as I know he’s almost the opposite of what you just described.”

 

“Not ‘almost’, John – he is the _precise_ opposite. The same logic applies. It is the premise which is contrary. This is a mediocre student with nothing apparently extraordinary about him that went on to become a respected musician, a hero to many. It’s very unlikely the killer is following the careers of every single one of his former students, although it is conceivable that he remembers all their names and faces. So how did Matthew get his attention? Hardly a difficult deduction here – the killer must have seen or heard of him in the media. That he had failed to notice Matthew previously, despite his band enjoying success in England and overseas for quite a few years, only reinforces this. This was also why mistakes were made.”

 

“He left his comfort zone,” John supplied. “Like involving Rufus.”

 

“A pawn. You won’t find Matthew’s address in the phonebook; Smith needed someone who had the means to follow Matthew so he could deliver the letters and then abduct him. Rufus had obviously been in Smith’s sights for awhile and, if you recall his widow’s words, he had been trying to patch up his life. Clearly our serial killer had been exercising some kind of influence over him lately and perhaps this was his way out, to redeem himself in Smith’s eyes. His failure two nights ago triggered his demise.”

 

“But... why is he doing this to Matt? If this is about expectations and he’s spectacularly exceeded those…?”

 

“Mark Smith is never wrong, John.” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “He failed to recognise Matthew’s talent and that can only mean that Matthew is a fraud.”

 

 

***

 

Matt sighed nervously, pulling his knees to his chest as he dropped his head back against the glass behind him with a thud. Smith had been sat reading a newspaper for what felt like an eternity, as if having a man locked in a glass box in his basement was ordinary to the point of forgettable.

 

“My wife and I are peaceful people,” Smith had told his prisoner. “We live by principles we consider fundamental to our society and we do not condone deception and thievery. So to come across you and what you have done... my own student.” His mouth had twisted in disgust. “You couldn’t possibly have written the music you’ve claimed as your own, we both know it and it’s pointless you trying to deny it. You can start by giving me a name. Who was the talented individual from whom you’ve stolen everything? Or was it more than one person? Tell me the truth – and tell me all of it - because I _will_ know if you are lying, Matthew.”

 

Trying to make the man believe he hadn’t ripped anyone off had been an exercise in futility. Offers of money in exchange for his release, accusations that his captor was clinically insane and threats that he’d be caught soon because there were people looking for him had gotten Matt precisely nowhere. After awhile, Smith had simply opted to wait for a willing ‘confession’ instead.

 

Even amidst his terror at his predicament and the haziness caused by the tranquiliser lingering in his system, the singer couldn’t help but wonder about his former teacher’s cool, calculated confidence. It was unnerving to imagine this might not be the first time Smith had done this.

 

It was inconceivable that this was how his life would end. Someone would come. Sherlock would be on his trail by now. The detective would be rubbing his hands in glee, regarding Matt’s disappearance as a source for more useful data about the stalker; that alone would allow him to identify the self-righteous Smith and show up with the police to arrest him. Sherlock was obviously a man who lived to be proved right.

 

He wondered whether he could deceive Smith with a lie. But what were the chances of doing it convincingly? Not good. To be used as a last resort, maybe. However, Matt wasn’t sure he could claim something which couldn’t be further from the truth and deny the very thing that gave his life meaning, which had allowed him to escape the future that Smith had predicted for him as a youngster. He realised he’d rather die defending himself and his passion than spend what could turn out to be his last moments in this world trying to convince someone that he was a fraud, when he was anything but.

 

 

***

 

 

The cab had dropped them in a street parallel to Syon Manor Road. John was placing a quick call to Dom as Sherlock observed their surroundings. Mark Smith had been employed at the Kew Bridge Steam Museum, conveniently located beside the Thames, for a number of years. It was no surprise that one of the bodies had been found a short distance from Kew Pier.

 

“Sherlock,” John was still on the phone. “Dominic’s telling me he’s just been summoned to Scotland Yard by a Detective Inspector... You did tell Lestrade where we were going, didn’t you?”

 

“Of course I didn’t. He wasn’t in the office when I left.” Sherlock pointed towards a house. “That is where he lives. All the houses in this street have basements, so that is where he murders them, if he elects to do it at home.”

 

After asking Dom to inform Lestrade of their whereabouts (the DI would be thrilled to know Sherlock had, once again, run off on his own...), John rushed to follow the detective, already walking briskly across the Smiths’ front yard with his coat flapping dramatically behind him. He knocked on the door without hesitation.

 

“What’re you doing?” John hissed at his side.

 

A woman who could only be Mary Alice Smith, the killer’s wife, opened the door.

 

“Yes?”

 

There was a moment of complete silence and stillness before Sherlock produced a bright, beaming smile and offered his hand.

 

“Hello, hello! We work for the Child Healthcare Foundation, an organisation with the singular vision of providing the best healthcare available for children in developing countries. We mainly fund research so we can help cure poor, sick children and -”

 

Following Sherlock’s lead, John put on an equally jovial smile as his flatmate babbled about the non-existent work of a fictitious foundation, one invented on the spot for the sole purpose of getting the house owner’s attention. Nodding with a small smile, she listened attentively while Sherlock’s eyes scanned the interior of the house as much as the angle allowed – he’s started the moment he noticed she didn’t make eye contact. Claiming quietly that she was busy, Mary Alice Smith asked them if it would be possible for them to return in two days.

 

“Well,” Sherlock paused for a moment, as if giving it some thought. “We _could_... but by then it would be too late.”

 

Stepping swiftly forward, he grabbed her, pressing a hand over her mouth to stop her from shrieking as she struggled weakly in his grasp, John following as he dragged her inside. A pointed look from the detective and he was taking her from his flatmate’s arms, holding her in a headlock until she passed out.

 

“What are we doing, Sherlock?” John whispered, carefully easing the unconscious woman’s body to the floor. “Look at her, she’s harmless!”

 

“Wrong. She knows all about her husband’s activities and covers up for him. Completely under his control and therefore a threat. Tie her up,” he instructed as he glanced around. “Matthew’s here.”

 

Quickly securing her hands behind her back with her own scarf, John pulled his gun from his jacket, feeling the familiar adrenaline rush as he followed Sherlock, who had dashed off to check the rest of the house. He found him in the kitchen, running his gloved fingers over the frame of a neat white door which could easily be mistaken for an ordinary cupboard had they not known what to look for.

 

It opened soundlessly and they took the stairs it revealed down after exchanging a look. There was another door at the bottom, wide open, and Sherlock peered cautiously through it.

 

“You could have knocked.”

 

Mark Smith was holding a shotgun and it was trained on Sherlock.

 

Behind him, inside a glass tank that was embedded in the wall, was Matt. The tank was half full of water and the singer anxiously shifted to his knees as he recognised the new arrivals, gaze twitching between Sherlock and the man who held him captive. ~~~~

“Be still, Matthew,” Smith ordered before returning his attention to the detective. “Peeking. Always a sign of bad manners. As is turning up uninvited. But you can come in, you and your friend hiding in the stairwell hoping I haven’t noticed his presence. Hands up where I can see them, the two of you, and the gun thrown over there.” He motioned with his head towards the other side of the room.

 

They both complied, John cursing under his breath and tossing the weapon across the floor with reluctance. His eyes met Matt’s and he was surprised to see the glint of hope in the singer’s despite the fear. It must have been an incredible relief to find himself no longer alone, John guessed, even if his situation hadn’t exactly improved.

 

“Where was the camera?” Sherlock asked. A small monitor screen was set up on a table in the corner. “Ah. The doe in the sitting room. It was indeed facing the entrance hall. Let me guess, in one of the eyes.”

 

“Very well done, but much too late,” their opponent sneered. “I presume you’re the people Matthew hired to seek the author of the letters he received? I imagined he would increase security or talk to the police; contact a private detective as a last resort, which he eventually did. Bravo, you’ve found me. But now I’m afraid I can’t just let you go.” 

 

Sherlock smirked. “Really? So you’re just going to kill all three of us. Very well, an efficient solution. But what good will that do when the police arrive in a few minutes?”

 

The shotgun quivered momentarily in Smith’s hands. “Doesn’t matter, we’ll think about that later.” His hand flew to the tap on the wall next to the glass tank and water started pouring into it again, Matt gasping and splashing around in distress at the rising water level. “I’m willing to bet you’re only bluffing. They can’t know. They would be the ones here and not you, if that were the case.”

 

“Oh, of course they don’t know. Despite the trail of incriminating evidence you’ve left behind you,” Sherlock airily replied. “They also don’t know about your five other victims, all former students. Did you invite them around to reminisce about the good old days over a nice cup of tea, I wonder? Or did you instead drug them and then drown them in this tank, disposing of the bodies in the Thames afterwards?” Sherlock started speaking more rapidly. The tank was filling at an alarming rate, Matt silently pleading with them to hurry as the water lapped at his shoulders. “Ah, and now the rusty wheels of your brain are cranking to life, Mr. Smith… You’re thinking that it’s very likely I’m not bluffing after all and that if you run away now perhaps you won’t be caught. But the problem is that shotgun you’re holding. You see, I know that you have to reload after each shot. And here’s me _and_ John. You shoot one and while you reach into your pocket for another shell, the other will run to the gun on the floor and shoot _you_. So. Who to shoot first?”

 

The man’s hands were trembling noticeably now. “Shut up.”

 

“I seem to know far too much about what you’ve been doing and I’m obviously the cleverest person in the room so I’m a threat that must be terminated, but then again,” Sherlock gazed contemplatively at the ceiling, tilting his head towards John, “ _he_ had the gun, so it’s possible he may have better aim which could be bad news for you if you target me first.” A police siren became audible in the distance and Sherlock was all smugness as he gestured to the small window near the ceiling. “Ah. And here they are.”

 

The man stared at the window in alarm, lowering the shotgun for a fraction of a second, and the momentary distraction, which Sherlock knew would not be Lestrade, at least not yet, was all the detective needed. He lunged towards Smith in an attempt to disarm him. The criminal pressed the trigger and the noise was deafening in the enclosed space, but it was too late and he’d lost his aim, another hand already firmly controlling the barrel. They fought, the man trying to shove Sherlock back with the shotgun until John shouted from across the room.

 

“Sherlock, get down!”

 

There was a second shot the moment he crouched, this time from John’s direction, and Smith staggered, one hand to his shoulder as the other desperately hung on to the weapon. He was raising it and reaching into his pocket with bloodied fingers when John fired again. Sherlock didn’t waste time inspecting the body that slumped to the floor; he knew John didn’t miss.

 

The tank was completely full, water leaking from under the lid, and Sherlock ran to shut off the tap. In the middle of the fight with Smith he’d lost track of the time and wasn’t sure if Matt had been underwater for twenty seconds or forty. He stopped in front of him, staring at the singer through the glass that separated them, the trapped man staring back with wide, clear eyes, his palms flat against the surface.

 

“Don’t move and stay calm! We’re getting you out. Do you understand what I’m saying?” The detective removed his gloves as Matt nodded jerkily in acknowledgement and started feeling around the edges of the tank, wrenching out the metal bars at the top and bottom, while still speaking in a loud voice. It was impossible to remove the lid without extracting the tank from the cavity altogether. “Stay very still so your body won’t use up more oxygen than necessary and try to hold your breath for as long as you can. You’re a singer, you’re an experienced scuba diver, you _know_ you can hold your breath for longer than most people.”

 

“Sherlock, get out of the way and tell Matt to -”

 

“This is Plexiglas acrylic, John, it’s bulletproof. Waste of time!”

 

“Then...” John spun around on the spot, eyes searching. “There must be a tube we can find, a thin hose, something we can insert in there to provide him with oxygen -“

 

“The hose was in the front yard and it wouldn’t work anyway because we can’t remove the lid, I’ve already checked.” Sherlock was striding around the room.

 

“Then I’ll go upstairs, maybe -“

 

“There is no _time_! He’ll be unconscious by the time you find something suitable!”

 

He closed his eyes to concentrate. Wooden chair, table, paint cans, bundled newspapers, rope, gardening implements, bags of soil, laptop, monitor screen, wellies, bleach, seeds, empty card boxes, broom... Sherlock listed everything stored in the basement. There was only one thing they could do to save Matt; extremely risky but, from all the available options, the one with the best probability of success.

 

“We have to pull the tank out of the wall and tip it over,” he said as he began unravelling the rope from its neat coil. ”Shoot the wall right below, it will give us a bit more leverage.”

 

When John raised his arm to act accordingly, Sherlock saw Matt’s confusion and fear, and then hope spreading over his face - he thought they were going to shatter the glass with a bullet. But his relief was short-lived, replaced by anguish when he realised where John was aiming, and he flinched at the first shot. He shook his head at Sherlock. He could no longer hold his breath.

 

Sherlock took one hasty step forward despite himself, the word ‘no’ dying in his throat, even though he had known beforehand that Matt would be unconscious by the time they managed to free him. The plan had always been to resuscitate him afterwards, hoping that he would suffer no permanent damage as a result. He watched as Matt flailed weakly and then as he went still, losing consciousness. His head drooped to the side as his eyes closed.

 

“Come on, John!” The rope was threaded around the tank, one end held by Sherlock and the other by John. “How many minutes do we have after submersion?”

 

The doctor swallowed and braced himself. “You know the answer – as few as possible.”

 

On the count of three, they yanked hard in a joint effort, the first of repeated attempts to drag the tank to the edge of the wall cavity until it tipped over. It finally plunged to the floor after two minutes of concerted pulling and the pressure of the liquid inside propelled the lid to break open as it hit. The floor of the basement was instantly flooded, the water spilling out and carrying Matt with it. Sherlock and John ran to him, soaking their own clothes as they knelt on either side of his body, John turning him on his back and positioning him correctly to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

 

“No pulse.” John palpated his carotid. “I’ll do chest compressions, you do mouth to mouth. Two rescue breaths, please,” he instructed, placing his hands on Matt’s chest. He looked up at his flatmate when there was no response. Sherlock was frozen, simply staring at the singer’s face. “Sherlock! Can you do it, or not? I need to know!”

 

“Yes, of course. I’ll do it.” He cleared his throat. “Ready when you are.”

 

John had already started, stunned at Sherlock being so visibly distraught and trying not to let it get to him. Matt had been without oxygen for almost three minutes. He thought of drowning victims he’d tried to save in the past. He thought of those with whom he had succeeded; he tried not to think of the one with whom he hadn’t.

 

Sherlock heard John counting from far away as he watched Matt. Deathly pale and looking so small, the drenched clothes clinging to his slender frame making him look incredibly fragile. He pushed back the damp hair from his forehead and lifted his chin up when John stopped on the count of thirty. Pinching the singer’s nostrils shut, he bent over and sealed Matt’s mouth with his, blowing air into his lungs once and then again upon seeing his chest rise. John resumed the compressions, counting out loud once more. The only motion from the man lying on the floor was caused by the sheer force of the compressions against his chest.

 

“Come on, Matt, wake up!” John shouted on the fourth cycle of resuscitation.

 

Sherlock blew again but this time it took him a split second more to relinquish Matt’s lips. They were so cold. A ridiculous, irrational wish formed in his mind, that instead of air he could somehow blow life into him. John’s voice was steady as always when he restarted compressions, but Sherlock realised his own hands were trembling slightly and that he was still cupping Matt’s face. It was taking too long, the chances for survival dropped drastically after each cycle.

 

He began to mentally rewind the last minutes, hours, days. Trying to pinpoint the exact point when he failed; the precise, crucial moment when his failure caused this to happen. Matthew was going to die. He was going to die in front of his eyes, in his and John’s arms. There was something tugging in his chest, tight, painful, making it difficult to breathe, to concentrate. He recognised the symptoms – he was starting to panic.

 

Among the near seven billion ordinary, boring and utterly tiresome people in the world, there were only a small handful of individuals that sparked with brightness and potential in the middle of the crowd. Mark Smith was an imbecile who couldn’t recognise brilliance and it had taken longer than usual for Sherlock to spot it himself, but Matthew was one of those individuals. He spoke a language that very few living people could and translated it so others could share. Never before had Sherlock wished so dearly that he did not care. It was a horrible way to be reminded of the heart he claimed not to have.

 

A tremor ran through Matt’s body, and then he started choking and gurgling. John instantly ceased his compressions and checked his pulse, the musician now feebly stirring to life.

 

“We’ve got him! Sherlock, we’ve got him!” John shouted happily. “Spit it out, Matt... Cough and spit it all out.” He was rolling him on to his side, Sherlock catching on and helping him.

 

Matt coughed the water out of his lungs and gasped for breath under John’s watchful eye, Sherlock loosening the blue scarf around his own neck when he felt that, for a moment, he, too, seemed to have stopped breathing. But he was alive.

 

Matt opened his eyes as the retching eased and found Sherlock smiling down at him.

 

“You’ll be okay now.”

 

 

 

When they walked slowly out of the house a few minutes later, the area was surrounded by police cars and ambulances and Lestrade was running down the road toward them. When John had called him to let him know Matt was alive, the Detective Inspector had told him they were arriving. He hadn’t expected him to be quite so literal.

 

Barely aware of the commotion and slowly processing everything with a strange sense of detachment, Matt halted his steps. Walking between the two men who had saved his life, wearing the coat which Sherlock had taken off and wrapped around him when he begun shivering uncontrollably after regaining consciousness, the singer had seen someone who made his heart swell with bliss.

 

Running across the front yard, Dom enveloped his best friend in a hug the moment he reached him, holding Matt’s head against his shoulder and squeezing him tight in his arms. It took him a little while to realise Matt was soaking wet, and he rubbed his arms and back vigorously through the layers of clothing, his fingers clinging desperately. When he finally pulled back and held Matt’s face between his hands, the singer noticed his red-rimmed eyes. 

 

“Are you okay?” It was all Dom could think to ask and a nod of head was all Matt could offer in reply. “I thought… Don’t you ever do that to me again, you idiot... What the fuck were you thinking? Leaving on your own?!”

 

“Shut up, I’m alright,” Matt said, his voice hoarse. “Thanks to them.”

 

They turned to Matt’s dishevelled rescuers, John alternating between watching them curiously and throwing surreptitious glances at Sherlock, as if looking for a negative reaction; but Sherlock was serene, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

“As Doctor Watson will undoubtedly agree,” he began, signalling to someone behind the two musicians, “you really must be seen by the paramedics. They’ll want to examine you and make sure you have suffered no injuries due to oxygen deprivation. Then brace yourself for DI Lestrade. He has a knack for pestering people with irritating and irrelevant questions.”

 

They both nodded, Dom muttering questioningly about ‘oxygen deprivation’. Matt didn’t say anything, simply smiling gratefully at Sherlock and John. There was so much he wanted to say and yet no words that seemed ‘right’ occurred to him. But he had a feeling they understood.

 

“He’s right, you really should let them check you over,” John concurred. “We can talk later. Or tomorrow.”

 

They were joined by Sergeant Donovan and two paramedics and Sherlock and John watched as they were led to a waiting ambulance, Dom’s arm around Matt’s shoulders, holding him close.

 

There was already police tape everywhere and Mrs. Smith was being escorted out. No doubt Lestrade was about to make an appearance and demand explanations.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Sherlock looked away from the small figure dwarfed by his coat and at his arm, which John was gripping lightly, gaze moving up to the kind, reassuring expression on his friend’s face. The one John reserved just for him, and that he’d never seen matched.

 

“Fine. Why do you ask?”

 

“Just making sure. It didn’t seem like you were back there in the basement.”

 

Sherlock swallowed. How could he possibly think that John wouldn’t see it? And obviously, John cared. Always. He was a compassionate person, but for some reason he had yet to comprehend, the doctor had chosen to care about Sherlock most of all. It struck him then how he could no longer imagine his life without their partnership, without John. Matt was special, he belonged to the world; but John was his and nobody else’s.

 

“Thank you,” his voice came out rougher than he’d anticipated. He wasn’t sure what else was expected of him. Damn emotions. Ghastly things! So he smiled at John and said the only thing that occurred to him. “Hungry?”

 

The grin that had been forming on John’s face broadened and he let out a giggle, looking at the ground. “Where?”

 

“Anywhere you want.”

 

It was a pleasant, strangely warming realisation, Sherlock decided. Indeed, this caring business did have its advantages from time to time.

 

_  
_

_To be continued..._ __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, the plan is to write a short sequel, or rather, to finish it... There is a certain criminal mastermindwho I'm sure would be following the case with moderate interest...


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